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THE    NEW    ELIZABETHANS 


THE  HON.  JULIAN  GRENFELL 
(CAPTAIN,  ROYAL  DRAGOONS,  D.S.O.) 

From  a  photograph  taken  at  Taploiu  Court.     The  Dog  is  the  original  of  his 
fioem  entitled  "  The  Black  Greyhound 


; 


THE  NEW   ELIZABETHANS 

A  FIRST  SELECTION  OF  THE  LIVES  OF 
YOUNG  MEN  WHO  HAVE  FALLEN  IN  THE 
GREAT  WAR  &  <&  BY  E,  B.  OSBORN 


"  Others  may  find  their  loves  and  keep  them, 
But  for  us  two  there  still  shall  be 
A  kinder  heart  and  a  fairer  city, 
The  home  and  wife  we  shall  never  see. 
Lost  adventurers,  watching  ever 
Over  the  toss  of  the  tricksy  foam, 
Many  a  joyous  port  and  city, 
Never  the  harbour  lights  of  home." 

E.  A.  MACKINTOSH 


LONDON:    JOHN    LANE,    THE    BODLEY    HEAD 

NEW   YORK:    JOHN    LANE   COMPANY    MCMXIX 


0 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 
ly  TurnbuU &•  Shears,  Edinb 


TO 

OUR  AMERICAN  COMRADES 

WHOSE      WORKS      AND      DAYS 

PROVE    THEM    THE    PEERS    OF 

THESE    YOUNG     KNIGHTS     OF 

AN    ELDER    CHIVALRY 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION  i 

A  DRAMATIC  DICKENS.     HAROLD  CHAPIN  8 

THE  TRUE  AMATEUR.     RICHARD  MOLESWORTH  DENNYS  17 

THE  HUMANE  DIPLOMACY.     CHARLES  LISTER  26 

A  SOUTHSIDE  SAXON.     ANTHONY  FREDERICK  WILDING  38 

THE  MODERN  ACTOR.     BASIL  HALLAM  48 

THE  ABSOLUTE  POET.     CHARLES  HAMILTON  SORLEY  54 

THE  WILDERNESS  WINNER.     BRIAN  BROOKE  64 

THE  JOYOUS  CRITIC.     DIXON  SCOTT  78 

AN  OXFORD  CAVALIER.     ROBERT  WILLIAM  STERLING  86 

LOST  LEADERS.     COLWYN  AND  ROLAND  PHILIPPS  98 

THE  SACRED  WAY.     DOUGLAS  GILLESPIE  112 

NATURE  WORSHIPPERS.     HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  127 

PIONEERS,  O  PIONEERS,     (i)  ALAN  SEEGER  144 

(2)  HARRY  BUTTERS  162 

THE  STUDENT  IN  ARMS.     DONALD  HANKEY  178 

THE  HIGHLAND  SOUL.     IVAR  CAMPBELL  191 

AN  IRISH  TORCH-BEARER.     TOM  KETTLE  211 

THE  HAPPY  ATHLETE.     RONALD  POULTON  228 

THE  MAN  ABOUT  TOWN.     THOMAS  VADE-WALPOLE  242 

THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER.     WILLIAM  NOEL  HODGSON  249 

THE  CANADIAN  ENTENTE.     GUY  DRUMMOND  266 

CASTOR  AND  POLLUX.     JULIAN  AND  BILLY  GRENFELL  283 


vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE    HON.    JULIAN    GRENFELL.     (Captain,    Royal 

Dragoons,  D.S.O.)       ....  "Frontispiece 

Front  a  photograph  taken  at  Taplow  Court.     The  dog  is  the  original 
of  his  poem  entitled,  "  The  Black  Greyhound" 

To  face  page 

HAROLD  CHAPIN.     (Lance-Corporal,  R.A.M.C.) 

RICHARD  MOLESWORTH  DENNYS.     (Captain,  Loyal 

North  Lancashire  Regiment)   .  .  .  .  17 

THE   HON.    CHARLES    LISTER.     (Lieutenant,"  Royal 

Marines)         ......  26 

Frotn  an  original  drawing  by  John  S  argent  ^  R.A. 

ANTHONY  F.  WILDING.     (Captain,  Royal  Marines)    .  38 

BASIL  HALLAM.     (Captain  and  Kite  Commander,  Royal 

Flying  Corps)  .....  48 

CHARLES    HAMILTON    SORLEY.      (Captain,    Suffolk 

Regiment)      .  .  .  .  .  .  54 

BRIAN  BROOKE.     (Captain,  Gordon  Highlanders)  .  64 

DIXON    SCOTT.       (Lieutenant,     3rd    West    Lancashire 

Brigade,  R.F.A.)          .....  78 

ROBERT   WILLIAM    STERLING.     (Lieutenant,    Royal 

Scots  Fusiliers)  .  .  .  .  .  86 

THE    HON.   COLWYN    PHILIPPS.      (Captain,    Royal 

Horse  Guards)  .  .  .  .  .  98 

THE    HON.    ROLAND    PHILIPPS.      (Captain,    Royal 

Fusiliers,  M.C.)  .  .  .  .  .100 

THOMAS  M.  KETTLE.     (Lieutenant,  Dublin  Fusiliers)  1 1 1 

DOUGLAS  GILLESPIE.     (Lieutenant,  Argyll  and  Suther- 
land Highlanders)        .  .  .  .  .  112 

HUGH   VAUGHAN    CHARLTON.      (Lieutenant,    7th 

Northumberland  Fusiliers)       .  .  .  .  127 

From  a  painting  by  his  father,  John  Charlton. 

SKETCHES  BY  HUGH  VAUGHAN  CHARLTON  128 


x  ILLUSTRATIONS 

To  face  page 

THE  CORMORANT  :    A  STUDY  FROM  LIFE.     By  HUGH 

VAUGHAN  CHARLTON     .  .  .  .  .  130 

JOHN    MACFARLAN    CHARLTON.      (Captain,    zist 

Northumberland  Fusiliers,  2nd  Tyneside  Scottish)  .  135 

AN  IMPRESSION  OF  JOHN  MACFARLAN  CHARL- 
TON.     By  his  brother,  HUGH  VAUGHAN  CHARLTON        .  136 

GOLDEN    PLOVER:    A   SKETCH.     By   JOHN    MACFARLAN 

CHARLTON       .  .  .  .  .  .  138 

THE  DEAD  BLACKCOCK  :  A  SKETCH.     By  JOHN  MAC- 
FARLAN CHARLTON        .  .  .  .  .140 

ALAN  SEEGER.     (Foreign  Legion  of  France)       .  .  144 

HARRY   BUTTERS.     (Lieutenant,  Royal  Field  Artillery.) 

Arrival  at  Stow-on-the-Wold   .  .  .  .  162 

DONALD    HANKEY.      (Lieutenant,   Royal  Warwickshire 

Regiment)      .  .  .  .  .  .178 

IVAR    CAMPBELL.       (Captain,   Argyll    "and    Sutherland 

Highlanders)  .  .  .  .  .  191 

RONALD  POULTON  PALMER.     (Lieutenant,  4th  Royal 

Berkshire  Regiment)   .  .  .  .  .  228 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  the  dressing-room  at  Twickenham  after 
his  last  International  match  on  English  soil  (1914). 

THOMAS  VADE-WALPOLE.    (Lieutenant,  i  oth  Gordon 

Highlanders)  .....  242 

WILLIAM  NOEL  HODGSON.     (Lieutenant,  9th  Devon 

Regiment,  M.C.)         .....  249 

GUY    DRUMMOND.      (Captain,   Royal    Highlanders   of 

Canada)          ......  266 

From  a  statue  by  R.  Tait  Mackenzie. 

THE  HON.  GERALD  WILLIAM  GRENFELL.    (Lieu- 
tenant, Rifle  Brigade.)     As  a  Roman  Centurion  .  282 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

So  many  of  the  relations  and  friends  of  the  subjects  of 
the  Memoirs  included  in  this  volume  have  helped  to  provide 
me  with  the  means  of  just  appreciation  that  a  mere  list  of 
names  would  fill  several  pages.  In  a  large  number  of  cases 
no  publicity  of  any  kind  is  desired.  It  seems  best  in  the 
circumstances  to  express  my  gratitude  for  their  kindness  and 
helpful  suggestions  without  naming  any  of  them. 

I  have  to  thank  Mr  John  Lane  for  the  great  interest  he 
has  taken  in  my  work  throughout,  and  for  his  flair  in 
procuring  much  material  that  has  been  invaluable  for 
my  purpose.  My  thanks  are  also  due  to  Mr  William 
Hutcheon,  Mr  Ian  Colvin,  Mr  G.  E.  Morrison,  Mr  Robert 
Hield,  Lieutenant  Power,  and  Mr  Ernest  Ward  for  excellent 
contributions  to  this  volume  and  to  the  sequel,  which  the 
natural  growth  of  the  work  has  rendered  necessary.  To 
the  first-named  I  am  also  indebted  for  that  helpful  kind 
of  sympathy  which  lightens  a  long  task  and  also  opens  up 
ntw  vistas  of  inquiry. 

In  these  "  characters "  I  have  chiefly  relied  on  the 
opinions,  written  or  communicated  in  conversation,  of  the 
younger  generation.  Youth  knows  more  about  the  young 
than  middle  age  or  old  age.  But  my  best  thanks  are  due 
to  the  authors  and  publishers  of  the  following  books  for 
allowing  me  to  quote  freely  : — "  Charles  Lister :  Letters  and 
Recollections  "  (Fisher  Unwin),  with  the  Memoir  by  Lord 
Ribblesdale  ;  "  Captain  Anthony  Wilding  "  (Hodder  W 
Stougbtori),  by  A.  Wallis  Myers  ;  "  Maryborough  and  other 
Poems  "  (Cambridge  University  Press},  by  Charles  H.  Sorley, 
edited  by  his  father,  Professor  W.  R.  Sorley  ;  "  Poems  " 
(Constable),  by  Alan  Seeger,  with  the  delightful  Memoir 
by  William  Archer  ;  "  War  Essays  "  (Constable),  by  T.  M. 


xii         ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Kettle,  with  the  biographical  sketch  by  Mrs  Kettle  ;  the 
works  of  Donald  Hankey  ("  The  Student  in  Arms "), 
published  by  Mr  Andrew  Melrose  ;  the  volume  of  "  Verse 
and  Prose  in  War  Time  "  (Murray),  by  W .  N.  Hodgson, 
edited  by  his  father,  the  Bishop  of  St  Edmondsbury  and 
Ipswich  ;  and  the  following  books  published  by  Mr  John 
Lane  :  '  "  Soldier  and  Dramatist "  (Harold  Chapin]  ; 
"Brian  Brooke"  and  "There  is  no  Death."  Other 
works  which  have  been  helpful  are  mentioned  in  the 
text. 

It  was  necessary  to  omit  from  the  present  volume,  owing 
to  exigencies  of  space,  several  of  the  "  characters  "  that  had 
already  been  written.  That  of  Rupert  Brooke  was  left  out 
in  view  of  the  publication  of  the  Memoir  by  Mr  Marsh, 
and  several  other  biographical  notices.  They  will  be  given 
in  the  Second  Series. 


THE    NEW    ELIZABETHANS 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  title  of  this  book  of  brief  memoirs  has 
to  be  explained  or,  if  you  will,  excused. 
It  is  the  more  necessary  to  do  so  because 
the  father  of  one  of  the  young  men  here  com- 
memorated and  held  up  as  examples  of  the  true 
patriot  for  coming  generations  has  suggested  that 
they  deserve  a  name  of  their  own,  a  modern  name, 
a  name  that  does  not  convey  a  sense  of  their  in- 
debtedness to  far-off  ancestors.  What  that  name 
should  be  I  cannot  guess ;  "  Georgians "  would 
hardly  be  acceptable,  even  if  it  had  not  already 
been  applied  to  a  particular  group  of  newly-arrived 
poets.  When  the  time  comes,  no  doubt  the  new 
name,  the  true  name,  will  find  itself.  Meanwhile 
there  is  authority  for  a  style  which  implies  that  the 
new  and  fresh  greatness  of  our  cause  and  country  is 
rooted  in  the  past,  and  that  tradition,  after  all,  is  a 
source  of  the  undying  vigour  of  our  race.  In  his 
brief  Plutarchan  character  of  Charles  Lister,  Sir 
Rennell  Rodd  makes  a  significant  comparison : — 

He  was  of  the  type  which  would  have  found  its  right  environment 
in  the  large-horizoned  Elizabethan  days,  and  he  would  have  been 
of  the  company  of  Sidney  and  Raleigh  and  the  Gilberts,  and  boister- 
ously welcomed  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern. 

There  never  lived  a  keener  or  kindlier  judge  of 
young  men  than  our  Ambassador  at  Rome,  and 
this  sentence  is  a  lightning-flash  of  intuitive  criti- 
cism which  reveals  to  us  the  arrival,  by  every  social 
path,  of  the  New  Elizabethans.  These  golden  lads, 
brothers  in  the  spirit  of  Meredith's  maid  of  gold, 
come  from  every  class  and  vocation,  are  of  all 
ranks  in  the  new  army.  They  are  already  a  race 


2  INTRODUCTION 

of  conquerors,  though  the  siege  of  Germany  is 
but  beginning.  First,  they  conquered  their  easier 
selves;  secondly,  they  led  the  ancestral  generations 
into  a  joyous  captivity.  Watch  the  way  of  any  one 
of  them  with  his  proud  father  (almost  always  the 
boy  is  longer  in  the  limb  and  not  so  short  in  the 
temper),  and  you  will  see  how  glad  the  "  Governor  " 
is  to  be  governed.  Middle-age  has  always  been  a 
blunder,  a  sad  blunder.  Since  the  war  began  it 
has  seemed  to  me  and  other  middle-aged  persons  a 
kind  of  felony — a  crime  for  which  one  ought  to  be 
committed  for  trial,  like  the  youth  in  Ereivbon, 
who  was  tried  on  a  charge  of*  pulmonary  consump- 
tion. Yet  these  generous  creatures,  our  own  and 
other  people's  sons,  are  so  valiant  in  their  forgive- 
ness of  it  that  they  most  willingly  die  lest  our  poor 
residue  of  years  should  be  embittered.  They  resign 
their  bright  young  lives  to  comfort  us  as  Sidney 
gave  up  the  cup  of  keen  cold  water.  Alas,  that 
we  veterans  of  peace,  with  the  scars  of  easy  living 
upon  us,  should  have  the  greater  need  of  so  precious 
a  gift  that  can  but  once  be  given ! 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  deduce  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  New  Elizabethans  from  those  whom 
we  meet  every  day  in  the  great  city  of  muted  lights, 
which  no  longer  shines  for  us  with  delight  from 
within.  Their  valiancy — a  brighter  quality  than 
the  Roman  virtus  because  more  compassionate- 
shines  in  them  all  like  a  star.  Brayed  in  war's 
mortar,  their  spirit  is  yet  unbroken  and  rings  clear. 
As  in  the  case  of  a  shockingly-shattered  corporal 
who,  when  a  visitor  to  his  ward  condoled  with  him, 
laughed  and  said :  "  But,  my  dear  sir,  I'm  alive ! " 
We  have  all  met  such  examples  of  antique  heroism, 
and  could  deduce  the  New  Elizabethan  spirit  from 


INTRODUCTION  3 

a  study  of  them.  But  it  is  easier  to  see  what  a 
brave  and  joyous  thing  it  is  from  the  records  of 
those  who  have  fallen  so  young  that  it  can  be  said 
of  them — 

They  shall  not  grow  old  as  we  that  are  left  grow  old  ; 
Age  shall  not  weary  them,  nor  the  years  condemn, 

and  yet  had  time  for  self-expression.  These  young 
men,  explicitly  Elizabethan,  actually  form  a  group 
bound  together  by  ties  of  personal  friendship  and, 
what  is  even  more,  a  common  confidence  that  life 
and  love  are  inexhaustible.  The  group  would  in- 
clude Julian  and  "  Billy  "  Grenfell,  Rupert  Brooke 
and  his  less  known  but  equally  lovable  brother, 
Alfred,  Charles  Lister,  Raymond  Asquith,  Charles 
Sorley,  Colwyn  Philipps,  Douglas  Gillespie,  and 
many  others.  Even  before  the  war  gave  them  the 
greatest  of  all  their  opportunities  to  justify  it,  these 
young  men  knew  and  practised  a  large-horizoned 
philosophy  of  living  which  scorned  social  conven- 
tions and  scoffed  at  party  fictions.  They  were  all 
scholars  and  sportsmen  and  poets — even  if  they  did 
not  write  poetry,  they  had  a  conviction  that  life 
ought  to  be  lived  poetically.  They  had  the  Eliza- 
bethan exuberance.  They  were  as  various  and 
insatiate  and  adventurous  in  the  art  of  living  as 
were  the  old  Elizabethans,  before  whom  the  gates 
of  the  Greek  past,  of  a  Roman  future,  were  flung 
wide  open.  It  is  true  that  they  veiled  with  veils  of 
wit,  sometimes  verging  on  cynicism,  a  deep  moral 
earnestness,  a  passionate  love  of  country.  Because 
of  this  habit,  and  also  because  they  liked  to  pull  up 
principles  by  the  roots  (which  often  dripped  blood  !) 
in  discussing  them,  they  were  at  times  frowned  upon 
by  serious-minded  elders. 


4  INTRODUCTION 

The  professional  patriot,  for  example,  seriously 
doubted  their  patriotism.  They  were  riotous  at 
times  in  their  joy  of  living ;  they  thought  nothing 
of  throwing  a  young  Cabinet  Minister  in  becoming 
into  the  Thames,  frock  coat  and  silk  hat  and 
crabbed  superiority  and  all.  As  time  went  on,  they 
had  a  fear  that  the  age  of  adventurous  living  was 
over  for  ever — one  of  them  said  the  "  Julianesque 
life,"  meaning  a  life  that  could  be  lived  a  outrance 
in  every  sphere,  was  ceasing  to  be  possible.  Then 
came  the  war,  and  personality  was  matched  with 
opportunity.  And  in  the  glorious  use  they  made 
of  this  opportunity,  two  points — both  character- 
istically Elizabethan — are  to  be  especially  discerned. 
First,  the  instinct  of  brotherliness  became  a  flame 
of  passion  in  them.  They  all  insisted  on  remaining 
regimental  officers,  in  serving  their  companies  of  the 
glorious  unnamed,  even  when  staff  or  diplomatic 
appointments  were  offered.  The  lines  of  a  still- 
living  member  of  this  brotherhood,  the  greatest 
of  the  war  poets  as  yet  published,  express  their 
passionate  devotion  to  their  men  :— 

Was  there  love  once  ?    I  have  forgotten  her. 

Was  there  grief  once  ?    Grief  still  is  mine. 
Other  loves  I  have  ;  men  rough  but  men  who  stir 

More  joy,  more  grief  than  love  of  thee  and  thine. 

Faces  cheerful,  full  of  whimsical  mirth, 

Lined  by  the  wind,  burned  by  the  sun, 
Bodies  enraptured  by  the  abounding  earth 

As  whose  children  brothers  we  are  and  one. 

Secondly,  their  land  was  the  Gloriana  they 
glorified  in  their  deeds.  And  is  not  this  land  of 
ours  very  like  that  crowned,  thankless,  just,  un- 
generous, celestial  virago  who  could  give  herself 
to  no  man  ?  In  all  the  New  Elizabethan  verse  this 


INTRODUCTION  5 

love  of  country  burns,  as  when  the  soldier  poet 
sees  the  memorial  beauty  of  his  own  countryside 
in  a  sudden  vision  before  battle,  and  cries  to  his 

soul — 

The  gorse  upon  the  twilit  clown, 

The  English  loam  so  sunset  brown. 

The  bowed  pines  and  the  sheep  bells'  clamour,    . 

The  wet,  lit  lane  and  the  yellow-hammer, 

The  orchard  and  the  chaffinch  song 

Only  to  the  brave  belong. 

Other  points  of  resemblance  to  the  old  Eliza- 
bethans, the  greatest  of  whom  were  so  often  novt 
homines  or  the  scions  of  newly-advanced  families, 
could  also  be  discovered.  For  example,  a  pleasant 
brevity  of  everyday  diction  bridges  the  gulf  of 
time  between  the  two  ages  of  action.  Drake 
described  his  greatest  moral  achievement  as  "  singe- 
ing the  King  of  Spain's  beard,"  which  may  be 
compared  with'  the  description  of  the  Zeebrugge 
affair  as  "  going  in  with  skooters  and  skimming 
dishes  and  making  Fritz  sit  up  and  take  notice." 
The  professed  historian,  deeply  entrenched  in  his 
arm-chair,  is  apt  to  be  misled  by  such  colloquial  and 
exiguous  phrases.  It  has  been  so  in  the  case  of 
Drake's  raid  into  Cadiz,  which  was  not  the  gallant 
piece  of  impudence  most  people  imagine  it  to  have 
been,  but  an  amazing  victory  which  suddenly 
brought  a  long-descended  form  of  naval  warfare 
to  an  end  and  made  the  future  of  Philip's  plan  of 
invasion  inevitable.  Drake  went  into  the  Spanish 
harbour  with  small  vessels  armed  with  heavy  guns 
and  proved  beyond  doubt  that  oar-propelled  galleys 
with  rams,  the  capital  ships  of  two  thousand  years 
of  naval  warfare,  were  helpless  against  the  English 
new  model.  Let  us  hope  the  Zeebrugge  affair 
will  not  be  thus  misunderstood  by  posterity. 


6  INTRODUCTION 

However,  the  Englishman  in  action  will  always 
use  phrases  as  short  as  his  temper  and  as  unrhetori- 
cal  as  his  temperament — he  cannot  cure  himself  of 
a  habit  which  can  be  traced  back  into  the  Middle 
Ages.  Again,  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  make 
out  a  case  for  the  moral  superiority  of  the  old  to 
the  new  Elizabethans.  The  contemporaries  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  when  closely  considered  in  the  light 
of  their  deeds  and  words,  often  display  unpleasant 
shortcomings — they  were  shamelessly  "  on  the 
make"  in  many  instances  and  were  often  corrupted 
through  and  through  by  their  perpetual  intrigues 
for  Court  favour.  There  is  actually  a  dark  and 
unattractive  side  to  the  character  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  himself.  He  had  a  u nervy"  tendency  to 
make  haphazard  accusations  against  perfectly  innocent 
people,  as  in  the  well-known  letter  in  which  he 
threatens  to  thrust  his  dagger  into  Molyneux,  his 
father's  faithful  servant.  Moreover,  he  had  not 
enough  mirthfulness  in  his  nature,  and  both  as 
friend  and  lover  is  lacking  in  simplicity  and 
sincerity. 

Indeed,  we  need  not  fear  a  comparison  of  the 
young  heroes  of  this  warlike  awakening  with  those 
of  any  other  country  or  of  any  other  age  that  has 
ever  been.  There  are  no  two  types  alike  in  this 
gallery  of  portraits ;  they  are  similar  only  in  their 
swift  and  unselfish  devotion  in  a  great  cause  and  in 
an  underlying  and  uplifting  sense  of  the  brother- 
hood of  all  true  men.  It  would  have  been  as 
easy  to  find  three  hundred  as  thirty  examples  of 
such  self-devotion  in  that  portion  of  the  Allies' 
Roll  of  Honour  which  is  writ  in  English  so  to 
speak.  And  in  considering  these  countless  examples 
of  blissful  and  sacrificial  devotion,  and  the  infinite 


INTRODUCTION  7 

variety  of  the  personal  gifts  that  have  been  sacrificed, 
we  find  a  bright  certainty  that,  in  spite  of  incalcul- 
able losses,  the  survivors  of  this  youth-devouring 
war  will  be  numerous  enough  to  take  the  lead  in 
rebuilding  our  shattered  world  nearer  to  the  heart's 
desire — more  like  than  unlike  that  visionary  Civitas 
Dei)  which  is  the  ofily  home  of  mankind's  aspira- 
tions and  inspirations.  Let  the  elder  generations 
stand  aside  when  the  young  men  come  back  from 
the  War  and  would  set  their  hands  to  the  task  of 
rebuilding.  For  this  is  the  chief  lesson  of  the  War 
—that  age  is  not  wiser  than  youth,  as  we  used 
to  think  in  the  former  peace-time. 

E.  B.  O. 


DRAMATIC  DICKENS 
HAROLD  CHAPIN 

HAROLD  CHAPIN,  the  most  promising 
of  the  younger  dramatists  working  in 
England  when  the  War-storm  burst  on 
us,  was  born  in  Brooklyn,  U.S.A.,  on  February 
i  jth,  1886.  He  remained  an  American  citizen  to 
the  end,  and  when  a  letter  was  shown  to  him,  in 
which  an  old  friend  of  his  mother  said  how  noble 
it  was  of  him  "  to  fight  for  King  and  Country," 
his  comment  defined  his  standpoint  very  com- 
pletely. "  I'm  fighting  for  no  King,"  he  said  with 
a  laugh,  "  and  the  best  of  this  King  is  that  he 
knows  we  are  not  fighting  for  him."  It  was  a 
saying  full  of  dramatic  meaning;  very  like  the 
subtle  bits  of  dialogue,  so  frequent  in  his  plays, 
which  leave  after-thoughts  in  the  mind  of  an 
audience.  If  he  lived  for  American  ideas  of  de- 
mocracy, it  is  certain  that  he  died  for  his  adopted 
mother  country.  He  was  kwled  in  the  battle  of 
Loos  on  September  26th,  1915,  and  his  death  was  a 
disaster  to  the  drama  of  reality  (not  realism)  in  the 
land  of  all  lands  most  cumbered  up  with  stage 
conventions  and  traditional  business. 

His  family  was  of  good  old  New  England  .stock, 
descended  from  Huguenot  refugees,  and  there  is  a 
family  legend  of  an  Indian  princess,  some  fair  un- 
named Pocahontas,  wrho  married  one  of  his  ancestors. 
The  legend  may  well  be  true — for  he  had  the  dark 
and  intent  gaze  at  times  which  is  regarded  in  the 
West  as  one  of  the  most  enduring  signs  of  a  drop 
or  two  of  Indian  blood.  He  himself  always  insisted 
on  the  reality  of  his  Indian  ancestress.  His  mother, 


' 


HAROLD    CHAPIN 
(LANCE-CORPORAL,    R.A.M.C.) 


HAROLD    CHAPIN  9 

a  clever  and  well-known  actress,  brought  him  to 
England  before  he  was  three  years  old,  and  he 
spent  the  rest  of  his  life  there.  And  he  was 
only  seven  when  his  mother  was  engaged  to  play 
Volumnia  in  Coriolanus  at  Stratford-on-Avon  in 
1893,  tne  Year  w^en  the  Shakespeare  Festival  was 
postponed  from  April  to  August  owing  to  Sir  Frank 
Benson's  illness,  and  he  himself  was  cast  for  the 
part  of  Young  Marcus.  You  cannot  begin  too 
soon  to  learn  how  to  live  in  the  strange  world 
beyond  the  footlights  if  you  wish  to  distinguish 
yourself  in  the  triple  role  of  actor,  producer,  and 
dramatist.  Harold  Chapin  must  have  profited  by 
these  early  experiences  of  stageland,  for  those  who 
knew  him  as  a  boy  declared  that  he  always  possessed 
that  curious  gift  known  as  "the  sense  of  the  theatre," 
which  is  the  most  valuable  of  the  dramatist's  assets, 
next  to  a  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 

Mrs  Chapin  did  not  allow  excursions  into  stage- 
land  to  interfere  with  her  son's  schooling.  He  was 
packed  off  to  a  boarding  school  at  an  early  age,  and 
he  hated  it  heartily ;  so  much  so  that  in  after  years 
he  always  denounced  the  custom  of  sending  boys 
away  from  home  to  be  educated,  which  has  certainly 
destroyed  the  individuality  of  many  a  child-artist  in 
the  making.  But  he  was  very  happy  as  a  day-boy 
at  University  College  School,  and  he  decided  later 
on  that  his  own  son  should  go  there  when  he  was 
old  enough. 

He  was  a  staunch  little  chap  in  his  early  teens ;  a 
boy  among  boys  when  at  school,  and  having  none  of 
those  queer  faults  of  the  artistic  temperament  which 
so  often  cause  the  budding  genius  to  be  unpopular 
among  school-mates  destined  to  grow  up  into  men 
of  action  arid  men  of  transaction.  He  was  quick 


io        A   DRAMATIC    DICKENS 

and  clever  at  his  school  work,  but  not  possessed  by 
a  very  keen  sense  of  its  importance;  for  he  had 
already  chosen  his  vocation  in  life,  and  was  busy 
storing  up  in  his  memory  the  first  fruits  of  the 
born  dramatist's  keen  and  insatiate  faculty  of  ob- 
servation. Later  on,  when  he  had  his  life's  work 
in  hand,  he  used  to  fill  note-books  with  odds  and 
ends  of  detail  and  stray  scraps  of  dialogue,  overheard 
or  imagined  or  suggested  by  something  he  had 
read — and  he  was,  as  you  might  expect,  omnivorous 
in  his  reading.  As  a  small  boy  he  was  curiosity 
incarnate ;  he  simply  had  to  look  into  every  new 
thing  which  turned  up,  and  a  walk  in  labyrinthine 
London  or  in  the  country  was  for  him  a  wondrous 
voyage  of  exploration  and  discovery.  Indeed,  the 
Elizabethan  spirit  of  adventure  was  a  flame  in  his 
soul.  And  thus  blossomed  to  fruition  in  him  a 
keen  and  understanding  sympathy  with  all  living 
creatures — more  especially  animals  of  all  kinds  and 
those  poor  unconsidered  bits  of  humanity,  whose 
simplicity  breeds  in  the  true  lover  of  his  kind  the 
humour  that  issues  in  tears  and  laughter  com- 
mingled. He  might  laugh  at  some  freak  of 
character  he  had  discovered.  But,  even  as  he 
laughed,  you  saw  that  his  eyes  were  too  bright 
to  be  tearless.  One  of  the  experiences  he  was 
fondest  of  recalling  was  a  tour  with  a.  company  of 
barn-stormers,  a  veritable  Crummies  galaxy  of  stars 
a-twinkle,  in  which  he  played  all  manner  of  parts, 
from  Hastings  in  Jane  Shore  to  the  Father  in 
Maria  Martin  (there's  no  father  in  any  real  acting 
version  of  this  old  masterpiece,  but  the  women  had 
run  short,  and  the  mother's  sex  had  to  be  changed). 
He  loved  a  living  oddity ;  had  he  not  fallen  in 
action  he  might  have  become  the  Dickens  of  the 


HAROLD    CHAPIN  n 

British  stage.     The  few  plays  he  left  justify  that 
great,  sad  hope  of  what  might  have  been. 

He  was  a  clever  and  most  trustworthy  actor,  who 
worked  very  hard  indeed,  profited  by  all  kinds  of 
experience,  and  never  fell  below  the  expectations  of 
his  friends.  A  pleasing,  well-modulated,  virile 
voice,  a  manly  presence:  above  all,  the  power  of 
thinking  out  a  part  intelligently  instead  of  making 
it  a  bag  of  tricks  or  "  business "  collected  from 
others — these  and  other  good  qualities  were  bound 
to  bring  him  advancement  in  a  profession  which 
suffers  more  than  any  other  from  lack  of  reliability 
in  its  votaries  and  intelligence  stultified  by  an  in- 
growing egoism.  There  was  nothing  of  the  egoist 
in  Harold  Chapin ;  his  reverential  love  of  human 
nature  saved  him  from  the  weakness  so  admirably 
satirized  in  Bottom  (how  Shakespeare  must  have  loved 
him  !).  He  was  the  most  clubbable  of  men,  but  for 
all  his  kindly  camaraderie  he  never  squandered  his 
time  and  energy  even  in  the  cleanly  wantonness  of 
these  Georgian  days.  Had  he  stuck  to  acting  he 
might  or  might  not  have  made  a  great  success.  It 
would  have  been  largely  a  matter  of  luck ;  though 
he  was  no  genius,  chance  might  have  provided  him 
with  one  of  those  crowd-compelling  parts  which 
marry  opportunity  with  personality  and  make  a 
little-known  actor  or  actress  famous  in  a  night. 
But  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  the  thought  that 
acting,  much  as  he  loved  it,  was  for  him  but  a 
means  to  an  end — a  not  unprofitable  form  of  ex- 
perience which  would  help  his  dramatic  gift  to 
ripen.  All  his  spare  time  was  devoted  to  dramatic 
work,  and  the  fact  that  he  has  left  us  sixteen  plays 
(ten  of  them  in  one  Act),  in  spite  of  the  wear  and 
tear  of  rehearsing  and  playing,  is  a  great  tribute,  not 


12         A    DRAMATIC    DICKENS 

only  to  his  indefatigable  industry,  but  also  to  his 
single-hearted  devotion  to  the  art  he  loved  most 
of  all. 

It  is  in  his  one-act  plays  that  his  dramatic  genius 
— it  was  genius  beyond  question — is  best  expressed. 
Art  and  Opportunity,  the  three-act  play  which  he 
wrote  for  Miss  Marie  Tempest,  was  a  well-made 
affair,  full  of  pleasant  wit  and  original  ideas.  He 
devised  a  heroine  that  fitted  Miss  Tempest's  talent 
like  that  vivacious  lady's  evening  frocks.  She  was 
a  novel  species  of  adventuress  who  puts  her  cards 
on  the  table,  partly  because  she  is  a  sportswoman, 
partly  because  she  knows  that  her  opponents,  human 
nature  being  what  it  is,  will  never  believe  that  her 
real  cards  are  displayed.  The  play  was  fairly  suc- 
cessful, and  brought  the  author  cash  as  well  as 
reputation.  And  no  great  actress  is  more  kind  and 
considerate  to  the  playwright  that  "  makes  for  her  " 
than  Miss  Tempest,  who  is  also  as  sound  a  judge  of 
stage  technique  as  her  French  sister-in-art,  Mme 
Rejane.  But  he  parted  with  some  of  his  sincerity 
in  making  this  play,  and  the  royalties  that  flowed 
in  brought  him  only  vexation  of  spirit.  He  felt  he 
had  sold  himself — to  oblige  a  lady  !  A  worse  play, 
but  •  better  drama,  was  his  four-act  Marriage  of 
Columbine,  which  was  written  round  an  idea  picked 
up  in  his  barn-storming  experience.  There  he  was 
dealing  with  people  and  pursuits  he  knew  and  loved, 
and  his  tender  Dickensian  turn  of  mind  finds  itself 
again  and  again,  and  is  strangely  effectual. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  his  one-act  plays  are  his  best 
title-deeds  to  remembrance.  The  one-act  play  has 
not  yet  come  into  its  own  because  English  play- 
goers— or  American  playgoers  for  that  matter — do 
not  yet  see  that  it  is  a  form  of  dramatic  art  which  is 


HAROLD    CHAPIN  13 

sui  generis,  and  as  different  from  the  three-  or  four- 
act  play  as  the  short  story  is  from  the  novel.  We 
still  look  upon  the  drama  as  a  means  of  time- 
slaughter,  and  secretly  resent  the  spectacle  of  reality 
beyond  the  footlights.  That  is  why  the  dramatic 
conte,  of  which  Harold  Chapin  was  a  true  master, 
is  a  mere  stop-gap  in  this  country,  something  to  be 
punctuated  by  the  alarums  and  incursions  of  late 
arrivals.  If  a  manager  is  afraid  somebody  with  a 
piano  or  a  wallet  of  anecdotes  will  not  fill  the  gap, 
he  will  offer  some  needy  friend  a  bank-note  to 
make  him  a  one-act  trifle,  and  expect  delivery  by 
first  post  next  morning.  Well,  Harold  Chapin  did 
a  good  deal  to  continue  the  conversion  to  a  better 
appreciation  of  the  true  one-act  play  which  was 
begun  by  ''Op-d -my -Thumb  and  other  great  little 
masterpieces.  The  Dumb  and  the  Blind  is  an  excel- 
lent example  of  the  sincerity  and  simplicity  with 
which  he  shows  us  the  life  of  the  humble  folk  he 
knew  so  sternly,  loved  so  tenderly.  "  A  man  he 
was  both  loving  and  severe "  in  his  use  of  the 
dramatic  search-light  in  such  cases. 

Joe  Henderson,  bargeman,  has  hitherto  been  able 
to  spend  two  nights  a  week  at  home.  He  enters, 
with  his  mate  Bill,  to  tell  his  wife  that  he  has  just 
got  a  job  which  will  give  him  ten  bob  a  week  more, 
and  enable  him  to  come  home  every  night.  Joe  is 
rather  critical  and  blustering ;  in  the  opening  scene 
between  Liz,  his  wife,  and  Emmy,  a  sharp  daugh- 
ter, we  gather  that  he  is  a  discomfortable  house-mate. 
Liz  is  sent  out  for  a  jug  of  beer,  while  Joe  sits 
gossiping  with  his  friend.  The  beer  is  a  long  time 
coming,  and  going  to  the1  door  Joe  looks  out  and 
sees  something  (we  do  not  know  what  for  the 
moment)  which  impresses  him.  Liz  is  called  back; 


14        A    DRAMATIC    DICKENS 

the  jug  is  still  empty,  and  she  looks  caught  out. 
Bill  is  sent  for  the  beer,  and  Liz  is  questioned. 
"  Wot  was  you  a-doin'  of?  "  "  Puttin'  on  me  'at." 
"  No,  you  wasn't  ...  I  see  you  kneelin'  wiv  your 
head  on  the  bed."  Reluctantly  Liz  admits  she  was 
saying  her  prayers  ;  it  just  come  over  her,  like,  that 
she  wanted  to.  Why  ?  Because  she  felt  grateful 
like — she  wanted  to  sort  o'  thank  Gawd.  The 
domestic  blusterer  (he  is  hardly  bully)  questions  her 
strictly,  to  be  certain  that  praying  is  not  a  mechani- 
cal habit  with  her,  and  slowly  yields  to  the  strange, 
pleasing  idea  that  she  is  really  glad  to  have  him  at 
home  for  good.  The  dumb  has  spoken — to  God ; 
the  blind  has  had  a  glimpse  of  one  of  Love's 
miracles.  And  when  Bill  comes  in  with  beer,  Joe 
refuses  his  share  of  it — and  Bill,  in  his  turn,  is  dumb- 
founded. We  are  left  hoping  for  better  things  in 
the  Henderson  circle,  but  have  our  doubts.  Nobody 
ever  saw  this  tiny  play,  which  rings  true  in  every 
part,  without  thinking  over  it  again  and  yet  again. 
Harold  Chapin  could  always  sow  a  crop  of  after- 
thoughts in  the  intelligent  playgoer's  mind.  And 
this  little  play,  and  all  the  others  he  wrote,  see  life, 
and  see  it  whole,  and  present  it  as  a  mingling  of 
sadness  and  gladness.  Thus  he  avoids  the  fatal 
mistake  of  the  stern  "  intellectuals "  who  would 
revitalize  our  drama,  but  have  so  far  failed,  because 
they  take  too  dismal  a  view  of  life.  Yes,  he  might 
have  become  a  dramatic  Dickens,  if  the  German 
bullet  had  spared  him. 

When  the  War  began  it  speedily  engrossed  all 
Harold  Chapin 's  thoughts  and  emotions.  All  the 
tentacles  of  his  sympathy  for  human  nature  drew 
him  into  the  host  that  was  making  to  save  England 
and  the  world's  liberties.  He  could  not  act ;  "  it 


HAROLD    CHAPIN  15 

seems  so  silly ! "  he  said.  By  this  time  he  had 
married  Calypso  Valetta  (in  1910),  and  had  a  little 
son.  The  twain  owned  all  his  heart  between  them; 
home  held  all  his  happiness.  Yet  he  must  serve  his 
land  and  his  people,  and  a  month  after  August  4th, 
1914,  that  undying  day,  he  enlisted  in  the  R.A.M.C. 
All  that  he  felt,  while  training  and  when  at  the 
front,  is  faithfully  recorded  in  the  letters  he  wrote 
home  to  his  wife,  his  little  son,  his  mother,  and  to 
the  dog  Emma.  They  are  unlike  any  other  letters 
I  have  ever  seen.  They  are  records  of  things  seen 
and  done,  of  feelings  and  thoughts  that  must  out ; 
without  a  trace  of  sentimentality,  of  cleverness,  of 
posing,  of  literary  allusiveness.  They  show  you  a 
mind  cleared  for  action,  a  heart  concentrated  on 
loving;  and  they  define  the  man  as  vividly  and 
exactly  as  he  was  wont  to  define  the  humble  folk 
of  his  one-act  plays  by  their  own  works  and  words. 
The  book  that  contains  them  is  the  simplest  and 
sincerest,  the  pithiest  and  most  poignant,  of  all  the 
domestic  war  dramas  as  yet  presented  to  a  weeping, 
smiling  posterity.  Again  and  again  he  regrets  the 
enlistment,  which  has  saddened  his  wife's  lot,  made 
his  son's  future  so  doubtful,  straitened  the  life  of  the 
thrifty  little  home.  He  makes  no  secret  of  his 
discomforts  and  little  pleasures,  his  hopes  and  fears, 
his  eagerness  to  be  out  of  it  all,  and  his  unwilling- 
ness to  go  where  the  bullets  are.  But  the  time 
comes  when  he  must  write  as  follows:  "  I  made  the 
discovery  yesterday  that,  unless  I  can  leave  a  nice, 
well-finished-off  war  behind  me,  I  don't  want  to 
come  home.  This  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  am 
regularly  and  miserably  homesick  for  at  least  half 
an  hour  every  morning,  and  two  hours  every  even- 
ing, and  heartily  fed  up  with  the  war  every  waking 


16        A   DRAMATIC    DICKENS 

hour  between  ...  of  course,  the  sooner  'out'  the 
better,  and  I'd  give  my  teeth  for  a  week's  leave,  but 
I  don't  want  to  be  away  from  the  work — even  my 
insignificant  share  of  it — permanently  or  for  long." 
He  had  come  to  set  his  comrades  above  all  other 
loves,  old  or  new;  even  above  the  wife  he  adored, 
the  little  boy  whose  religious  education  he  discusses 
with  such  touching  wisdom ;  his  best  happiness  was 
to  be  useful  to  them.  The  men  are  in  his  thoughts 
all  the  time — he  is  always  talking  of  their  cheerful- 
ness, their  courtesy  to  women  and  kindness  to 
children  and  the  beasts  that  are  so  harshly  treated 
in  Latin  countries,  the  cleanliness  of  their  bodies 
under  the  mire  and  blood  of  action,  their  sweet 
reasonableness  even  in  delirium.  How  sad  to  think 
he  could  never  show  them  as  they  truly  are  to 
people  at  home,  to  whom  war  is  as  that  tortured, 
ever-hidden  face  of  the  moon !  A  single  one-act 
war-play  by  this  true  dramatist  would  have  blown 
the  Bairnsfather  convention  into  dust  and  ashes ! 

How  he  fell  will  never  be  fully  known.  The 
story  of  a  great  battle  is  full  of  tragic  half-glimpsed 
acts  of  heroism  which,  had  they  been  marked  by 
authoritative  eyes,  would  have  won  a  cross  of  bronze. 
This  at  least  is  certain  as  the  sun  at  noon — he  quit 
himself  like  the  man  he  was  in  the  deadly  turmoil 
of  attack  and  counter-attack  on  September  25 th 
and  26th,  working  without  rest,  and  taking  any 
and  every  risk  to  bring  the  wounded  into  safety. 
And  in  the  end,  after  being  wounded  and  taking 
no  heed  of  his  wound,  he  won  that  cross  of  wood 
which  is  nobler  far  than  any  earthly  order,  for  it  is 
the  eternal  symbol  of  willing  self-sacrifice. 


RICHARD  MOLESWORTH  DENNYS 
(CAPTAIN,  LOYAL  NORTH  LANCASHIRE  REGIMENT) 


THE  TRUE  AMATEUR 

RICHARD  MOLESWORTH  DENNYS 

"  ^T  T'OUTH  and  wisdom  is  genius,"  says  the 
|  strange  poet  who  plays  Elisha  to  the 
A  Elijah  of  Walt  Whitman.  If  that  be 
so,  the  gift  of  genius  must  have  been  given  to 
Richard  Dennys ;  for  though  he  died  in  his  thirty- 
second  year  of  a  wound  received  in  the  Somme 
advance  of  July  1916,  he  had  long  since  made 
his  peace  with  Death  (which  is  the  crowning 
act  of  human  wisdom),  and  found  out  a  way 
of  living  that  was  sufficient  to  all  occasions. 
England  has  always  been  full  of  these  quiet,  self- 
contained  personalities  who  seek  no  public  recogni- 
tion of  their  happy  qualities,  but  are  well  content  to 
remain  an  occluded  fire,  as  it  were,  at  which  a  few 
chosen  friends  can  find  spiritual  warmth  and  light. 
These  patient  souls  constitute  the  secret  strength  of 
England,  that  incalculable  and  inexhaustible  reserve 
of  spiritual  power  which  has  always  baffled  and 
amazed  her  mightiest  enemies— the  latest  of  whom 
are  all  the  more  confounded  because  they  had  for- 
gotten that  war,  as  Napoleon  himself  confessed,  is 
three-fourths  a  moral  issue. 

But  for  the  War  we  might  never  have  known  the 
true  worth  of  Richard  Dennys,  the  shyest  and  most 
reluctant  of  our  soldier-poets,  and  one  of  the  most 
"  Elizabethan  "  in  his  single-hearted  devotion  to  the 
quest  of  Beauty.  "  Of  his  artistic  gifts,"  wrote  one 
of  his  closest  friends,  Captain  Desmond  Coke,  "  it 
is  not  easy  to  write,  because  a  curious  quality,  which 
seemed  to  be  half  diffidence  and  half  inertia,  induced 
him  to  hide  their  performance.  He  practised,  it  is 

17 


i8          THE   TRUE    AMATEUR 

true,  in  almost  all  the  Arts — he  painted,  he  played 
the  piano,  he  wrote  in  poetry  and  prose,  he  acted — 
and  there  was  nothing  he  touched  that  he  did  not 
adorn  ;  but  few,  even  of  his  intimates,  were  allowed 
far  into  this  sacred  corner  of  his  life,  and  though  he 
would  sometimes  speak  of  coming  before  the  public 
as  a  writer,  none  who  knew  him  ever  took  this 
saying  seriously.  He  was  an  essential  amateur, 
not  in  the  vile  modern  sense,  but  in  the  fine  old 
meaning  of  that  terribly  ill-treated  word.  Beauty  in 
every  form  he  loved,  and  his  whole  life  was  beautiful 
in  a  degree  that  could  never  be  communicated  to 
anyone  who  had  not  known  him ;  nor  is  it  easy  to 
explain  in  what  way  he  impressed  one  as  possessing, 
far  beyond  those  of  more  elaborate  performance,  the 
spirit  and  the  splendour  of  rare  artistry.  He  was  a 
man  above  all~  to  know  and  to  be  thankful  for 
having  known." 

In  France  nobody  would  find  any  difficulty  in 
"  placing "  such  a  personality.  Richard  Dennys 
would  have  been  speedily  recognized  as  a  member  of 
that  intellectual  aristocracy  which  the  greatest  of 
French  artists  treats  with  deference,  knowing  as  he 
does  that  it  forms  the  ultimate  court  of  appeal  in  all 
questions  of  artistic  reputation.  But  why  ?  Because 
the  members  thereof  see  the  artist's  achievement, 
whatever  it  may  be,  in  its  relation  to  the  mother-art 
of  living,  and  so  are  able  to  distinguish  between  the 
eternal  and  the  ephemeral — that  which  is  a  real 
addition  to  the  amenities  of  human  nature  and  that 
which  is  accidental  and  meaningless  save  for  a 
moment.  In  England  the  "  universal  man "  —the 
thinker  who  has  discovered  what  underlies  all  the 
arts — is  a  solitary  creature,  and  his  influence  is 
invariably  confined  to  a  narrow  circle.  In  France 


RICHARD    DENNYS  19 

he  is  sought  out  and  sought  after,  and  in  course  of 
time  he  is  co-opted  into  the  fellowship  of  true 
amateurs,  which  constitutes  an  organized  force  of 
disinterested  opinion  in  regard  to  all  the  issues  of 
what  used  to  be  called  taste  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
Now  and  again  men  of  this  stamp,  always  provided 
they  have  practised  prose  or  verse  with  a  measure 
of  success,  have  exercised  a  sort  of  critical  dictator- 
ship in  English  literature.  Johnson  was  by  far  the 
most  famous  in  his  day  of  our  literary  dictators ;  a 
less  notable  example  was  the  late  W.  E.  Henley 
during  his  editorship  of  the  National  Observer^ 
which  made  or  marred  so  many  young  writers. 
This  one-man  rule  is  apt  to  degenerate  into  a  tyranny 
—and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  better  for 
art  to  be  ruled  by  an  intellectual  aristocracy,  which 
inherits  and  hands  on  its  tradition,  as  is  the  case  in 
France.  Richard  Dehnys  was  not  of  the  stuff  out 
of  which  the  tyrant  of  conversational  criticism  is 
wrought.  There  was  not  enough  ego  in  his  cosmos 
for  such  a  part.  If  you  wanted  his  opinion  on  a 
book  or  a  play  or  a  picture,  it  was  yours  for  the 
asking ;  and,  though  he  never  laid  down  the  law  in 
his  reply  to  such  a  request,  his  instinct  for  the  deep- 
lying  truth  came  to  be  implicitly  trusted  by  an 
increasing  circle  of  friends,  some  of  whom  were 
creative  artists  of  repute. 

His  boyish  ambition  was  to  be  a  poet,  and  some 
of  the  verse  he  wrote  before  entering  his  teens  is 
remarkable  both  in  form  and  matter.  A  Boy  s 
Thanksgiving  (written  at  Bexley  in  1896)  has  the 
sincerity  and  simplicity  of  R.  L.  Stevenson's  open- 
air  poetry ;  indeed  one  would  not  have  been  sur- 
prised at  finding  it  in  that  famous  author's  collected 
works.  This  admirable  poem  must  be  quoted  in 


20          THEfTRUE   AMATEUR 

full,  for  it  shows  how  deep-rooted  in  time  was  the 
philosophy — that  of  a  Christian  and  yet  a  Nature- 
worshipper — by  which  he  lived  and  died  :— 

God's  gifts  so  many  a  pleasure  bring 
That  I  will  make  a  thanksgiving. 

For  eyes  whereby  I  clearly  see 
The  many  lovely  things  there  be ; 

For  lungs  to  breathe  the  morning  air, 
For  nose  to  smell  its  fragrance  rare ; 

For  tongue  to  taste  the  fruits  that  grow, 
For  birds  that  sing  and  flowers  that  blow ; 

For  limbs  to  climb,  and  swim,  and  run, 
And  skin  to  feel  the  cheerful  sun ; 

For  sun  and  moon  and  stars  in  heaven, 
Whose  gracious  light  is  freely  given  j 

The  river  where  the  green  weed  floats, 
And  where  I  sail  my  little  boats ; 

The  sea  where  I  can  bathe  and  play, 
The  sands  where  I  can  race  all  day  ; 

The  pigeons  wheeling  in  the  sun, 
Who  fly  more  quick  than  I  can  run  ; 

The  winds  that  sing  as  they  rush  by, 
The  clouds  that  race  across  the  sky  ; 

The  pony  that  I  sometimes  ride, 
The  curly  dog  that  runs  beside ; 

The  shelter  of  the  shady  woods, 
Where  I  may  spend  my  lonely  moods 

The  gabled  house  that  is  my  home, 
The  garden  where  I  love  to  roam, 

And  bless  my  parents  every  day, 
Though  they  be  very  far  away. 

Take  Thou  my  thanks,  O  God  above, 
For  all  these  tokens  of  Thy  love. 

And  when  I  am  a  man,  do  Thou 
Make  me  as  grateful  then  as  now. 


RICHARD    DENNYS  21 

And  here  is  a  charming  impression  of  frost,  written 
a  year  or  two  later,  which  has  the  completeness 
of  the  tiny  poems  made  by  Japanese  Nature- 
worshippers  : — 

Last  night  at  bed-time,  cold  and  white 
A  fog  breathed  on  my  window-pane, 

It  hid  the  blinking  stars  from  sight 
And  masked  a  moon  upon  the  wane. 

This  morning  it  has  gone  away, 

The  fog  whereon  I  looked  last  night, 

But  every  tiny  twig  and  spray 
Is  frosted  with  a  coat  of  white. 

But  the  time  was  at  hand  when  school  life  was  to 
absorb  all  his  activities,  and  it  was  not  until  his 
twenty-fifth  year  that  he  once  more  wrote  verse 
which  seemed  to  him  worth  keeping.  How  many 
pieces  he  threw  into  the  fire  during  his  'prentice 
days  will  never  be  known  !  He  went  to  Winchester 
College  where  poetry,  or  at  any  rate  prosody,  is  in 
the  air — just  as  at  Shrewsbury  School  dust  falling  in 
the  sixth-form  library  was  found  to  consist  of  Greek 
particles !  The  Winchester  master  who  saw  a  small 
man  reading  Swinburne  and  could  find  nothing 
better  to  say  than  "  Poor  little  devil ! "  was  really 
outside  the  traditional  picture.  When  his  school- 
days were  over  Richard  Dennys  went  to  St 
Bartholomew's  Hospital,  where  he  took  his  final 
degrees  (M.R.C.S.  and  L.R.C.P.)  in  1909.  His 
heart,  however,  was  not  in  the  business  of  medicine, 
and  he  never  practised.  Strange  to  say,  nothing 
that  he  wrote  in  later  years  bears  any  trace  of  the 
knowledge  he  must  have  acquired  at  St  Bartholo- 
mew's of  the  mysteries  of  the  human  flesh  and  the 
half-explained  powers  that  sustain  it.  Later  on  he 
went  to  Florence  and  worked  at  Gordon  Craig's 


22          THE   TRUE   AMATEUR 

school  for  the  improvement  of  the  Art  of  the  Theatre. 
And  his  many-sided  mind  had  full  play  there,  for 
the  Art  of  the  Theatre  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  synthesis 
of  all  the  other  arts.  So  far  his  life  had  been  un- 
eventful ;  the  so-called  "  practical  "  man  might  have 
called  it  empty  of  urgent  interests.  His  friends  and 
relations;  the  old  houses  in  which  he  felt  the  action 
and  atmosphere  of  past  ages ;  his  own  small  store  of 
seventeenth-  and  eighteenth-century  treasures;  above 
all,  his  never-ceasing,  ever-increasing  devotion  to  Art 
in  all  its  manifestations — these  were  the  matters  that 
filled  his  life  through  and  through  and  gave  him  an 
unbroken  happiness  which  was  all  the  more  real  and 
vital,  perhaps  because  he  was  always  looking  back  on 
the  youthful  years  that  had  been,  and  was  visited  by 
moods  of  an  unappeased  melancholy  which  expressed 
itself  in  such  lines  as  these  : — 

I  do  not  understand  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 

Nor  the  message  of  stillness 

From  lips  that  have  loved 

And  hands  that  have  given  caresses. 

He  was  at  Florence  when  the  War  broke  out,  and 
he  at  once  returned  to  England.  Various  attempts 
to  get  work  in  which  his  medical  training  would  be 
useful  were  unsuccessful.  He  obtained  instead  a 
commission  in  the  Loyal  North  Lancashire  Regi- 
ment, and  from  that  time  on  was  absolutely  absorbed 
in  his  military  duties.  Those  who  thought  him  too 
much  of  a  dreamer  and  likely  to  fail  in  dealing  with 
the  rough,  ugly,  defiling  necessities  of  war  were 
astonished  to  find  that  he  soon  became  an  admirable 
regimental  officer.  After  all,  will-power  is  half  the 
secret  of  military  leadership — indeed,  nothing  can 
compensate  for  the  lack  of  it,  either  in  a  general  or 
in  a  subaltern — and  no  artist,  no  seeker  after  Beauty, 


RICHARD    DENNYS  23 

ever  succeeded  in  his  quest  without  a  full  share  of 
the  spirit  that  will  bear  down  all  difficulties  to 
achieve  its  end.  The  true  artist,  the  true  amateur, 
must  have  an  iron  will,  as  all  Frenchmen  and  a 
few  Englishmen  very  well  know.  It  was  so  with 
Richard  Dennys,  who  from  first  to  last  put  his 
whole  soul  into  the  work  that  had  found  him ;  no 
labour  was  too  hard  or  too  tiresome,  no  mental  or 
physical  misery  too  great  for  him,  if  it  made  for  the 
welfare  and  efficiency  of  his  men.  His  extraordinary 
ability  was  recognized  at  once.  He  was  promoted 
temporary  captain  before  the  end  of  1914,  and  he 
got  his  company  soon  after  he  went  to  France. 
The  miseries  of  a  wet  winter  in  the  trenches  left  him 
smiling  and  imperturbable.  "  Under  the  most  ad- 
verse circumstances,"  wrote  his  C.O.,  "  he  was  always 
cheery ;  nobody  ever  heard  him  grouse.  The  best 
interests  of  the  men  and  traditions  of  the  Battalion 
were  always  his  chief  concern."  No  company  com- 
mander was  ever  more  indefatigable  in  screwing 
comforts  out  of  the  authorities  for  his  men,  who 
soon  learnt  to  trust  him  and  love  him  in  spite  of  the 
habit  of  reserve  which  he  could  never  overcome. 
Physical  courage  is,  of  course,  taken  for  granted,  but 
Richard  Dennys  (who  had  long  ago  "  given  Death 
the  lie,"  like  the  great  Elizabethan  soldier-poet) 
showed  an  inspiring  coolness  under  the  bombard- 
ments that  accompanied  the  Somme  advance  of  July 
1916.  Had  he  survived  that  great  feat  of  arms 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  risen 
rapidly  to  high  rank,  for  by  that  time  his  keen  and 
many-sided  intelligence  had  made  him  a  master  of 
his  business. 

His  war  poems,  hastily  written  while  he  was  rest- 
ing in  billets,  are  few  in  number.      But   they  are 


24          THE   TRUE   AMATEUR 

ample  evidence  for  the  belief  that  his  old  philosophy 
of  living  and  dying — based  on  a  bed-rock  certainty 
that  God  is  immanent  in  Nature — had  proved  suffi- 
cient for  all  his  newer  needs.  In  simple,  soldierly 
verse  he  pays  a  tribute  to  the  men  he  loved  so  wisely 
and  so  well : — 

Ted,  Harry,  Bill  and  John, 

Cheery  friends  I  know  to-day, 
Goodly  lads  to  look  upon, 

Willing  lads  for  work  or  play. 

Duty  claims  a  man  entire, 

With  will  and  strength  to  pay  the  price, 
Relinquishing  his  heart's  desire 

To  make  the  final  sacrifice. 

But  the  strangely  beautiful  tie  of  affection  between 
the  regimental  officer  and  his  men  which  prompted 
Lieutenant  E.  A.  Macintosh,  M.C.,  to  say  in  a 
poem  addressed  to  the  fathers  of  his  slain  High- 
landers : 

You  were  only  their  fathers, 
I  was  their  officer 

must  have  seemed  to  him  too  intimate  and  sacred  a 
matter  to  be  made  the  theme  even  of  poetry.  Yet 
in  Better  Far  to  Pass  A*way  the  veils  of  reserve 
are  drawn  apart,  and  the  secret  sources  of  his  fortitude 
are  shown  in  lines  which  have  the  true  Elizabethan 
ring  :— 

Better  far  to  pass  away 

While  the  limbs  are  strong  and  young, 
Ere  the  ending  of  the  day, 

Ere  Youth's  lusty  song  be  sung. 
Hot  blood  pulsing  through  the  veins, 

Youth's  high  hope  a  burning  fire, 
Young  men  needs  must  break  the  chains 

That  hold  them  from  their  heart's  desire. 


RICHARD    DENNYS  25 

My  friends  the  hills,  the  sea,  the  sun, 

The  winds,  the  woods,  the  clouds,  the  trees — 
How  feebly,  if  my  youth  were  done, 

Could  I,  an  old  man,  relish  these  ! 
With  laughter,  then,  I'll  go  to  greet 

What  Fate  has  still  in  store  for  me, 
And  welcome  Death  if  we  should  meet, 

And  bear  him  willing  company. 

My  share  of  fourscore  years  and  ten 

I'll  gladly  yield  to  any  man, 
And  take  no  thought  of  "  where  "  or  "  when," 

Contented  with  my  shorter  span. 
For  I  have  learned  what  love  may  be, 

And  found  a  heart  that  understands, 
And  known  a  comrade's  constancy, 

And  felt  the  grip  of  friendly  hands. 

Come  when  it  may,  the  stern  decree 

For  me  to  leave  the  cheery  throng, 
And  quit  the  sturdy  company 

Of  brothers  that  I  work  among. 
No  need  for  me  to  look  askance, 

Since  no  regret  my  prospect  mars. 
My  day  was  happy — and  perchance 

The  coming  night  is  full  of  stars. 

In  A  Bofs  Thanksgiving  and  in  this  last  poem 
of  all  his  character  is  explained  and  his  career 
justified. 


THE  HUMANE  DIPLOMACY 
CHARLES  LISTER 

CHARLES  LISTER  (according  to  the 
Memoir  by  his  father,  Lord  Ribblesdale) 
was  a  personality  even  in  babyhood.  Mr 
Gladstone  made  his  acquaintance  at  the  age  of  six, 
and  was  much  pleased  by  his  accurate  and  pellucid 
pronunciation  of  long  and  sonorous  words,  such  as 
ornlthorhynchus.  The  two  discussed  the  habits  of 
the  more  obscure  animals  as  depicted  in  a  natural 
history  book  with  fine  plates,  and  parted  on  terms 
of  mutual  respect.  "''He  seems  to  be  a  clever  man," 
said  the  little  boy  when  asked  what  he  thought  of 
the  visitor.  Later  on  he  gave  up  the  use  of  poly- 
syllabic words  (which  clever  children  invariably 
collect  from  the  conversation  of  grown-up  people), 
and  his  boyish  letters  were  pithy  and  to  the  point. 
His  wish  to  create  a  social  Utopia,  which  made  him' 
a  Socialist  even  in  his  Eton  days,  found  early 
expression  in  a  well-ordered  polity  of  rabbits, 
guinea-pigs,  and  mice,  maintained  by  him  in  the 
stable-yard  at  Gisburne,  the  family  home.  This 
model  community  was  subjected  to  a  complex  code 
of  eugenic  and  dietary  rules  and  regulations.  The 
inhabitants  were  very  tame,  and  seemed  to  accept 
their  master  as  a  benevolent  and  beneficent  deity. 
But  they  were  unconstitutional  in  their  habits  and 
practices ;  the  mice  were  always  escaping,  the  rabbits 
evaded  the  well-devised  marriage-laws,  and  the 
guinea-pigs — as  their  owner  once  told  Lady  Ulrica 
Buncombe,  a  very  close  friend  of  his  at  the  time- 
exhibited  traces  of  the  worst  qualities  of  humanity 
— dirt,  greed,  and  cowardice.  "  These  guinea-pigs 


26 


THE  HON.  CHARLES  LISTER 
(LIEUTENANT,  ROYAL  MARINES) 

From  the  original  drawing  by  J.  S.  Sargent,  R.A.,  Gisburne,  August,  iSqq. 

When  Mr.  Sargent  ivas  paying  a  visit  at  Gisburne  he  was  impressed  by  a 
fidelity  to  ty/>e  conspicuous  in  this  mid-seventeenth  century  portrait  and  the 
'Charles  Lister  of  iSqq.  This  accounts  for  the  background  of  his  drawing. 


CHARLES    LISTER  27 

are  not  a  comfort  to  me,"  said  another  little  boy  to 
the  writer ;  and  in  that  case  the  socialistic  state  was 
dissolved  by  allowing  all  its  members  to  escape  into 
a  plantation,  after  which  no  sign  of  their  existence 
was  ever  seen  by  mortal  eye.  If  Jean  Jacques 
Rousseau  had  only  kept  guinea-pigs ! 

But  Charles   Lister's  Socialism  which  flourished 
at    Eton    and    at    Oxford,    the    most    tolerant    of 
democracies,  survived  the  collapse  of  the  stable-yard 
polity,  because  it  was  rooted  in  a  real  love  of  human 
nature  and  a   lively  confidence   in   its   possibilities. 
The  time  came  when  this  instinctive  sympathy  with 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  human  beings  was  satisfied 
by   the   camaraderie  of    the    shell-vexed    Gallipoli 
trenches.      "  From  the  first,'*  said  an  old  friend  of 
his  Eton  days,  u  he  was  the  embodiment  of  com- 
radeship in  whatever  society  he  found  himself.     The 
way  men  lived  filled  him  with  curiosity.      Like  the 
Celt   of  old   who   awaited   at   the    cross-roads    the 
passers-by  to  compel  them  to  tell  him  something 
new,    so     Charles    interrogated     his    companions." 
Naturally  and  necessarily,  he  was  happy  at  school ; 
for  Eton  is  always  kind  to  all  whose  philosophy  of 
living,    whatever    it    may    be,    does    riot    issue    in 
•  priggishness    or    snobbishness — two  of  the  modern 
deadly  sins  which  were  unknown,  nay,  unthinkable, 
to  all  the  New  Elizabethans.     When,  however,  he 
had  reached   the  age   of  indiscretion,   and  political 
searchlights  began  to  move  across  his  horizon — the 
old    Party    organizations    are    always    interested   in 
young  men  of  good  birth  and  fine  talents — some  of 
his   friends   and   relations   had   searchings  of   heart 
about  his   Socialism,   which    threatened   to   become 
much   more   than   a   form   of    ineffectual    idealism. 
After   leaving   Oxford,   where   he   won    a    classical 


28    THE   HUMANE   DIPLOMACY 

exhibition  at  Balliol  and  took  a  first  in  Greats,  he 
entered  into  close  relations  with  the  Independent 
Labour  Party  ;  he  became  enveloped,  so  to  speak, 
in  sociological  treatises  and  statistical  surveys,  both 
animate  and  inanimate,  and  seemed  to  be  throwing 
away  his  chance  of  a  political  career.  But  there 
was  never  any  reason  to  fear  that  he  would  lose 
touch  with  the  realities  of  human  life,  that  rough 
fabric  of  human  strength  and  weakness  interwoven. 
A  young  man,  said  the  late  King  Oscar  of  Sweden, 
who  has  not  been  a  Socialist  before  he  was  twenty- 
five  shows  that  he  has  no  heart ;  a  young  man  who 
remains  one  after  twenty-five  shows  that  he  has  no 
head.  Mr  Balfour,  another  connoisseur  of  men  in 
the  making,  was  consulted  by  the  young  man's 
mother.  And  he  took  the  common-sensible  view  of 
the  matter,  pointing  out  that  the  I.L.P.  intimacy 
would  enable  him  to  get  all  sorts  of  experience 
and  a  fund  of  special  knowledge  more  valuable 
than  that  to  be  acquired  by  keeping  selling- 
platers  or  running  a  minor  actress.  Socialism,  like 
measles,  is  best  taken  in  youth;  either  disease,  if 
contracted  in  middle  age,  is  dangerous  to  the  patient 
and  apt  to  leave  some  sort  of  constitutional  disability 
behind.  A  wider  knowledge  of  men  and  affairs 
convinced  him  of  the  truth  of  Jowett's  saying,  that 
human  beings  are  not  governed  by  logic,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  parted  company  with  the  "  intel- 
lectuals," who  think  that  human  nature  can  be 
argued  into  a  state  of  blessedness,  that  barbara 
celarent  is  a  guarantee  of  the  Millennium.  But 
he  never  lost  his  keen  and  blissful  liking  for  his 
fellow-creatures  and  his  anxious  desire  to  serve 
them ;  the  social  phenomenon  known  as  labour 
unrest,  which  is  really  the  protest  of  flesh  and  blood 


CHARLES    LISTER  29 

against  being  made  cogs  and  wheels  and  footlin' 
little  keys  in  a  vast  industrial  mechanism,  always 
troubled  his  generous,  purposeful  spirit. 

The  writing  of  small  memorials  (in  prose  or  verse) 
has  been  much  practised  since  the  Great  War  began. 
It  is  natural  that  the  intimate  friends  of  the  joyous 
youths,  who  have  made  the  last  sacrifice,  giving  all 
that  they  were,  and  all  that  they  might  have  been, 
in  the  service  of  their  country,  should  make  such 
offerings  of  thought  touched  with  emotion.  From 
two  of  those  memorials  to  Charles  Lister  I  make  the 
following  excerpts ;  the  first  is  by  the  Rev.  Ronald 
Knox,  and  the  second  by  Sir  Rennell  Rodd,  our 
Ambassador  at  Rome,  under  whom  he  served  his 
apprenticeship  in  diplomacy : 

i .  "  Political  Oxford,  sporting  Oxford,  ecclesi- 
astical Oxford,  intellectual  Oxford,  philanthropic 
Oxford,  revolutionary  Oxford,  all  knew  him  as  a 
familiar.  His  infectious  vitality  galvanized  every- 
thing ;  no  festive  occasion  was  complete  without  him, 
no  meeting  would  suffer  him  to  keep  silence,  and  he 
even  contrived  to  instil  a  certain  heartiness  into  the 
cloistered  Gregorians  of  the  Cowley  Fathers'  church. 
His  lighter  and  his  more  serious  moments  were 
strangely  blended.  Once  when  he  came  into  colli- 
sion with  the  authorities  of  Trinity,  he  was  rusticated 
for  the  short  remnant  of  a  term.  Having  made 
arrangements  for  the  entertainment  of  an  expected 
guest,  a  Labour  M.P.,  he  went  off  to  study  poverty 
at  first-hand  in  an  East-end  Settlement. 

"  He  had  none  of  the  inhuman  detachment  which 
often  makes  public  characters  unknowable  in  private; 
while  he  tolerated  widely,  he  was  whole-hearted  in 
his  attachments  to  personal  friends.  His  friendship 
enriches  the  past,  and  the  memories  you  shared  with 


30    THE   HUMANE    DIPLOMACY 

him  stand  out  vividly  from  a  hazier  background, 
whether  you  picture  him  shooting  on  a  Scotch  moor, 
or  assisting  boisterously  at  a  stormy  meeting  of  the 
Church  Congress,  or  applauding  the  efforts  of  M.  de 
Rougemont  to  ride  a  turtle  in  a  tank  at  the  Man- 
chester Hippodrome.  Though  he  was  at  the  moment 
of  action  regardless  of  the  figure  he  cut,  he  could 
laugh  at  himself  in  private  and  prove  his  sense  of 
proportion.  His  richest  vein  of  humour,  whether  in 
conversation  or  in  writing,  was  a  running  parody  of 
bad  journalese :  his  best  serious  writing  was  almost 
always  in  this  manner.  But  the  secrets  of  per- 
sonality, especially  in  a  personality  so  complex, 
necessarily  evade  description." 

2.  "  Charles  Lister  displayed  two  characteristics 
which  are  but  rarely  found  in  combination — the 
spirit  of  the  sportsman  and  the  lover  of  adventure 
with  the  instincts  of  the  scholar  gentleman.  He 
was  of  the  type  which  would  have  found  its  right 
environment  in  the  large-horizoned  Elizabethan 
days,  and  he  would  have  been  of  the  company  of 
Sidney  and  Raleigh  and  the  Gilberts  and  boister- 
ously welcomed  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern.  He  would 
sometimes  pretend  that  he  was  divided  in  his  mind 
whether  the  life  of  the  fox-hunter  or  that  of  the 
college  don  would  have  most  tempted  him  if  he  had 
only  had  to  follow  his  instincts.  But  in  reality  he 
was  much  too  deeply  imbued  with  the  sense  of  duty 
and  the  higher  obligations  of  life  to  have  devoted 
himself  to  the  former  to  the  exclusion  of  graver 
things.  He  was,  however,  seriously  drawn  towards 
the  student's  life,  and  was  a  deep  and  thoughtful 
reader  with  a  very  retentive  memory.  No  doubt  he 
was  also  a  hard  and  fearless  rider,  without  the  graces 
of  the  natural  horseman,  and  here  an  the  Roman 


CHARLES    LISTER  31 

Campagna,  with  its  long  deceptive  reaches  of  grass 
and  its  sudden  and  unexpected  obstacles,  his  im- 
petuosity often  alarmed  his  friends.  But  there,  as 
in  the  sea  in  the  bay  of  Naples,  where  currents  ran 
strong  and  seas  were  high,  as  afterwards  in  the 
deadly  battle  area  of  Gallipoli,  he  was  physically 
the  most  fearless  of  men.  In  the  more  difficult  tests 
of  moral  courage  I  have  known  no  braver  soul." 

It  might  seem  from  these  fragments  that  he  lacked 
the  power  of  self-concentration  on  a  definite  piece  of 
work  which  might  appear  interesting  to-day,  dull 
and  monotonous  to-morrow.  But  both  these  wit- 
nesses and  many  others  certify  that  it  was  not  so 
with  Charles  Lister.  At  Oxford  he  got  a  First  in 
"  Greats  "  at  the  end  of  his  third  year,  and  success 
of  that  kind  can  only  be  achieved  by  keen  and  con- 
tinuous hard  work  (not  drudgery  .  .  .  Oxford  exists 
to  put  the  mere  drudge  in  his  proper  place  among  the 
Seconds).  And  Sir  Rennell  Rodd  assures  us  that 
he  was  conscientious  in  carrying  out  the  daily  routine 
work  of  an  embassy,  even  when  his  duties  seemed 
dull  and  mechanical.  He  even  made  strenuous 
efforts,  as  an  attache,  to  master  the  accomplishments 
of  the  ball-room. 

His  letters  to  friends  from  Rome,  from  India, 
which  he  visited  on  leave,  and  from  Constantinople, 
are  full  of  the  mellow  wisdom  which  one  expects 
only  from  a  seasoned  diplomatist,  well  versed  in  men 
and  events.  Diplomacy,  in  spite  of  its  bewildering 
restrictions,  was  manifestly  his  life's  work,  if  only 
because  he  was  able  to  read  at  sight  the  most  complex 
of  alien  types,  even  those  human  palimpsests  which 
are  so  common  in  the  Near  East,  an  ancient  melting- 
pot  of  civilized  and  uncivilized  races.  His  pithy, 
picturesque  letters  are  full  of  passages  which  show  a 


32    THE   HUMANE   DIPLOMACY 

profound  insight  into  the  mentality  of  peoples  whom 
the  average  Englishman  would  not  learn  to  under- 
stand in  a  thousand  years.  For  example,  he  sees 
that  the  Italians  are  a  race  that  has  never  quite 
grown  up.  He  says  they  are  certainly  great  babies 
— especially  the  "  smart "  ones— and  rejoices  in  the 
freshness  and  charm  of  their  perennial  babyhood. 
India  is  so  full  of  pitfalls  for  the  hasty  traveller, 
even  if  his  faculty  of  observation  is  trained,  that 
one  begins  his  gay,  go-as-you-please  letters  from 
Lucknow  or  Delhi  with  a  feeling  of  trepidation. 
But  a  sense  of  historical  perspective  saves  him  from 
the  errors  into  which  a  lover  of  his  fellow-creatures  is 
so  apt  to  fall  when  he  passes  through  that  wilderness 
of  indistinguishable  persons.  He  does  not  jump  to 
the  conclusion  that  those  silent  millions  have  been 
ground  down  into  dust  by  Juggernauts  of  gover- 
nance, of  which  the  British  Raj  is  the  latest ;  he 
knows  that  the  land  they  live  in  has  been  their 
destiny,  and  that  the  vision  of  an  independent  India 
is  vetoed,  not  only  by  history,  but  also  by  geography. 
He  finds  the  key  to  Indian  policy  in  Akbar's  inscrip- 
tion on  the  great  gate  built  at  Delhi  to  commemorate 
his  victories  in  the  Deccan  and  his  conquest  of 
Ahmednagar  and  its  Queen  :  "  Said  Jesus,  on  whom 
be  Peace,  The  'world  is  a  bridge,  build  no  house  on 
it"  He  sees  India  as  a  land  of  glorious  illusion  and 
dread  disillusionment  where  the  work  of  the  wise  is 
always  being  wrecked  by  the  impulses  of  the  fool. 
He  goes  straight  to  the  secret  of  the  comparative 
success  of  British  rule  in  India  when  he  says  that 
the  Briton  there  must  live  dead  straight,  both  in 
manners  and  morals,  seeing  that  it  is  Bible-and- 
Sword  heroes  like  old  Havelock  (whose  tomb  he 
saw  at  the  Alum-bagh)  who  have  made  us  respected. 


CHARLES    LISTER  33 

Once  or  twice  his  quick  sense  of  humour  prevents 
him  from  seeing  the  full  significance  of  some  curious 
fact,  e.g.  the  request  of  the  captain  of  hockey  at 
the  Khalse  College  who  asked,  before  an  important 
match,  that  the  assistant-clerk  in  the  Principal's 
office  should  be  let  off  work  for  the  day  because  he 
was  such  a  first-rate  pray-er  that  Heaven  would 
certainly  listen  to  his  petition  for  victory.  But  this 
was  merely  a  rather  involved  proof  of  their  implicit 
belief  in  a  Deity  which  has  all  earth's  affairs,  great 
and  small,  under  His  hand.  If  hockey  had  been 
played  in  the  true  Middle  Ages,  the  noontide  of 
Christianity,  any  Christian  captain  would  have 
called  on  the  local  saint  to  intercede  for  his  team. 
At  a  great  jousting,  everybody  prayed  hard  for  the 
success  of  his  champion — the  one  who  carried  his 
money,  in  point  of  fact !  And  don't  we  all  do  this 
very  thing  in  war-time — on  the  off-chance  of  getting 
luck  we  don't  deserve  ? 

The  letters  from  Constantinople,  written  on  the 
eve  of  war,  and  while  Turkey  was  being  fast 
entangled  in  the  German  plot,  will  be  invaluable  to 
the  historian  of  the  future.  More  especially  those 
received  by  the  writer's  aunt,  the  Hon.  Beatrix 
Lister,  who  was  conversant  with  all  the  complex 
problems  of  European  affairs  and  could  draw  him 
out.  Evidence  exists  in  them  for  the  belief,  con- 
firmed from  many  other  sources,  that  ever  since  the 
ist  of  July  Germany  had  finally  determined  on  war. 
The  feigned  innocence  of  the  Lichnowskys/  over 
whom  tears  were  literally  shed  in  London  at  the 
leave-taking,  is  scoffed  at  by  this  keen  and  cool- 
headed  observer.  The  persons  of  the  Turkish 
tragedy  pass  before  us  in  a  kind  of  diplomatic 
cinematograph.  Wangenheim,  who  began  by  saying 


34    THE   HUMANE   DIPLOMACY 

that  Germany  would  wage  a  "  Platonic  War  "  with 
England,  but  afterwards  changed  his  tune ;  Enver 
Pasha  and  his  one-man  claque,  the  Grand  Vizier ; 
the  tempestuous  Liman  von  Sandars;  the  solid 
tennis-playing  Gretchens  of  the  German  colony ; 
and  many  other  major  and  minor  actors — all  admir- 
ably characterised  and  bustling  about  their  own  and 
other  people's  business  in  the  liveliest  fashion.  No 
wonder  that  "  Charles  Lister :  Letters  and  Recol- 
lections" (Fisher  Unwin)  is  already  in  a  fourth 
edition. 

The  work  of  the  diplomatists  is  not  at  an  end  in 
war-time ;  nay,  it  is  more  important  than  in  peace- 
time, for  they  must  play  their  part  in  "  gaining 
public  opinion "  according  to  the  third  axiom  of 
national  warfare  as  anatomised  by  Clausewitz.  In 
France  or  Germany  young  men  of  the  calibre  of 
Charles  Lister  or  Raymond  Asquith  are  not  allowed 
to  descend  into  the  trenches  and  be  lost  in  the  mass 
of  indistinguishable  cannon-fodder.  Brain-power  is 
the  most  valuable  of  national  assets  in  war-time 
as  in  peace-time,  and  it  is  the  height  of  folly  to 
waste  it  unnecessarily.  It  will  be  part  of  the  stern 
discipline  of  Great  Britain's  future  wars  to  compel 
the  New  Elizabethan  to  work  where  his  special 
gifts  have  the  highest  value  for  his  country.  But 
these  philosophic  arguments  counted  for  nothing, 
for  less  than  nothing,  with  Charles  Lister  and  his 
friends.  They  were  inspired  with  the  spirit  of  the 
old  Crusaders;  the  call  to  dare  and  endure  all 
things,  in  company  with  their  inarticulate  and  un- 
gifted  countrymen,  came  on  them  as  the.  Holy 
Ghost  came  upon  the  apostles — as  a  sudden  great 
sound  in  the  likeness  of  fiery  tongues.  If  something 
was  lost,  something  was  gained  by  their  consuming 


CHARLES    LISTER  35 

desire  to  show  the  world  the  mettle  of  their  pasture. 
It  was  proved  urbi  et  orbi  that,  as  we  were  all 
Englishmen,  so  we  could  be  Englishmen  all  to- 
gether. Social  classes,  intellectual  castes — all  these 
distinctions,  real  and  half-real  and  unreal,  vanished 
in  the  chanting  flames  of  a  spiritual  conflagration 
out  of  which  a  New  England  is  even  now  emerging 
like  the  legendary  phoenix. 

With  a  group  of  Oxford  men  of  various  genera- 
tions, Charles  Lister  went  out  to  the  East  and 
joined  the  Hood  Battalion,  R.N.D.  His  letters 
from  Gallipoli  show  that  his  soul  was  at  peace  with 
itself  in  this  high  adventure,  which  ended,  alas, 
in  the  greatest  disaster  of  the  war,  the  withdrawal 
which  so  amazed  the  shattered  and  starving  Turkish 
troops,  and  must  have  seemed  to  them  Allah's 
crowning  act  of  mercy  !  Sir  Ian  Hamilton's  Honours 
despatch  gives  us  one  aspect  of  Charles  Lister's  admir- 
able services  in  the  most  ancient  theatre  of  European 
warfare  (was  Helen  really  only  a  metaphor  of 
the  control  of  Black  Sea  trade  ?).  He  was  com- 
mended "  For  brilliant  deeds  of  gallantry  throughout 
our  operations.  On  July  2ist  he  personally  re- 
connoitred a  Turkish  communication  trench,  and, 
although  wounded  (for  the  second  time)  he  returned 
and  led  forward  a  party  to  the  attack.  Subsequently 
he  was  a  third  time  wounded  and  has  since  died,  to 
the  sorrow  of  all  ranks  who  knew  him." 

When  he  was  recovering  from  his  first  wound, 
efforts  were  made  to  persuade  him  to  return  to  his 
diplomatic  work.  An  appointment  was  offered 
which  would  have  given  full  and  free  scope  for 
the  exercise  of  his  special  gifts.  But  he  felt  that 
he  could  not  leave  his  "  splendid  men,"  and  he  was 
soon  back  on  the  dreary  shell-swept  beaches  of  the 


36    THE   HUMANE    DIPLOMACY 

haunted  Peninsula,  where,  as  another  witness  said, 
the  ghosts  of  Greek  and  Trojan  heroes  sit  warming 
themselves  in  the  white  moonlight.  The  "  Hoods  " 
had  missed  him  sorely.  He  returned  to  assure  them 
joyously  that  they  were  having  the  time  of  their 
lives.  "  There  was  no  mess  in  the  Peninsula," 
said  Lieutenant  Ivan  Heald,  who  afterwards  fell 
in  an  air-fight  on  the  West  Front,  and  was  himself 
a  master  of  the  munitions  of  merriment,  "  so  merry 
as  ours  with  Lister  leading  such  rare  wits  as 
Asquith,  Kelly,  and  Patrick  Shaw-Stewart — Lister 
always  on  the  most  uncomfortable  packing-case, 
declaiming  and  denouncing  with  that  dear  old  stiff 
gesture  of  his,  which  we  came  to  know  so  well." 
And  behind  all  this  joyous  logomachy,  the  sense  of 
duty  burnt  like  the  undying  flame  on  a  secret  altar. 
Would  he,  after  all,  have  done  more  for  England  if 
he  had  saved  his  life  and  used  it  in  the  still-con- 
tinuing war  of  Chancelleries  ?  Let  the  present 
Headmaster  of  Eton,  that  fine  judge  of  characters 
and  careers,  have  the  last  word : — 

"  To  have  laughed  and  talked — wise,  witty,  fantastic,  feckless — 
To  have  mocked  at  rules  and  rulers  and  learnt  to  obey, 
To  have  led  your  men  with  a  daring  adored  and  reckless, 
To  have  struck  your  blow  for  Freedom,  the  old  straight  way : 

"  To  have  hated  the  world  and  lived  among  those  who  love  it, 
To  have  thought  great  thoughts,  and  lived  till  you  knew  them 

true, 
To  have  loved  men  more   than   yourself,   and  have   died  to 

prove  it — 
Yes,  Charles,  this  is  to  have  lived  :  was  there  more  to  do  ?" 

If  there  was  more  to  do,  he  must  be  doing  it  now. 
So  wise  and  wonderful  a  spirit  must  needs  be  immortal. 
When  M.  Bergson's  wonderful  vision  comes  true — 
when  the  forces  of  Life  in  a  last  great  offensive  ride 


CHARLES    LISTER  37 

over  and  occupy  the  dismal  trenches  Death  has  held 
for  half  eternity  and  all  time — he  and  his  comrades 
will  be  there  to  lead  the  way  as  in  Gallipoli  of  old. 
It  is  absurd  to  think  of  them  as  other  than  the 
undying  translated  into  a  loftier  and  even  more 
joyous  sphere  of  delight  in  action. 


A  SOUTHSIDE  SAXON 
ANTHONY  FREDERICK  WILDING 

THE  typical  New  Zealander  is  much  nearer 
to  the  Saxon  type  of  the  narrow  seas 
than  the  "  sombre,  indomitable,  wan " 
Australian,  who  is  the  product  of  transplantation 
into  a  mightier  land  with  a  fiercer  climate  more 
than  a  century  ago.  New  Zealand  is  the  youngest 
of  the  Dominions,  and  a  party  of  its  people  is  not 
easily  distinguished  from  a  group  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  mother  country.  Gallaher's  famous  team, 
for  example,  who  came  over  twelve  years  ago  to 
teach  us  how  to  play  a  more  imaginative  form  of 
Rugby  football  in  the  old,  staunch,  untiring  style 
of  the  'eighties,  looked  like  an  assortment  of  the 
sturdy,  indefatigable  toilers— 

"  Wick  and  warm  at  work  and  play  "• 

who  are  to  be  met  with  anywhere  in  the  northern 
industrial  counties.  And,  but  for  a  subtle,  exotic 
charm  of  intonation  (nothing  so  obvious  as  an 
accent !)  and  his  fresh  outlook  on  life,  and  singular 
power  of  kindly  receptivity,  you  could  never  have 
told  Anthony  Frederick  Wilding,  the  most  famous 
of  New  Zealand  athletes,  from  a  native  son  of  this 
old  crowded  island  which  is  still  "  Home "  to  the 
settlers  in  the  "  Long  White  Cloud  "  of  the  Maori 
adventurers.  When  he  was  playing  lawn-tennis  in 
the  Davis  Cup  Competition  in  New  York,  just 
before  the  war  began,  he  had  the  greatest  difficulty 
in  persuading  a  certain  American  journalist  that  he 
had  not  been  born  and  raised  in  England.  "  All  I 
can  say,"  said  the  interviewer,  "  is  that  you  look 


38 


I 


ANTHONY  K.  WILDING 
(CAPTAIN,  ROYAL  MARINES) 


ANTHONY    WILDING  39 

like  an  Englishman,  sound  like  an  Englishman, 
and  act  like  an  Englishman.  Ain't  there  been  a 
little  mistake  somewhere  ? "  What  puzzled  this 
doubting  Thomas,  no  doubt,  was  the  equanimity 
he  displayed  when  defeated  by  M'Loughlin  (whom 
he  had  beaten  a  year  before)  in  the  last  match  of 
his  life.  Americans,  and  to  a  less  extent  Australians 
and  Canadians,  are  seldom  capable  of  hiding  their 
disappointment  in  such  a  case.  But  Anthony 
Wilding  lived  up  to  the  highest  ideal  of  English 
spprtmanship ;  he  was  always  able,  without  an 
effort,  to  forget  all  about  prizes  in  remembering  the 
zest  of  a  well-fought  game,  and  his  sunny  smile 
and  willing  word  of  congratulation  added  to  a 
chivalrous  opponent's  pleasure  in  a  victory  which 
must  always  have  been  more  or  less  unexpected. 

Anthony  Wilding  was  born  at  Opawa,  near 
Christchurch,  on  the  last  day  of  October  1883. 
His  father,  Frederick  Wilding,  K.C.,  a  leader  of 
the  New  Zealand  Bar,  was  born  in  Montgomery- 
shire;  his  mother  was  a  daughter  of  the  Charles 
Anthony  who  was  six  times  Mayor  of  Hereford, 
and  did  more  than  anybody  else  to  make  the 
sleepiest  of  ancient  cathedral  cities  into  a  thriving 
centre  of  business.  All  the  Anthonys  have  brains 
and  character,  as  I  well  remember,  and  Mrs  Wilding 
was  an  admirable  mother,  who  taught  her  children 
that  what  was  worth  doing  at  all  was  worth  doing 
well.  But  Anthony  Wilding  was  his  father's  son 
as  well  as  his  mother's  son ;  it  was  from  his  father 
that  he  inherited  the  athletic  ability  which,  turned 
in  a  new  direction,  made  his  name  famous  wherever 
lawn-tennis  is  played  as  it  ought  to  be — not  as  a 
mere  accompaniment  to  tea,  talk,  and  flirtation,  but 
as  a  picturesque  and  inexhaustible  game  which  taxes 


40          A    SOUTHSIDE   SAXON 

the  athlete's  skill  and  staying-power  in  an  equal 
degree.  Mrs  Wilding  was  keenly  interested  in  all 
open-air  games;  she  never  went  to  see  a  cricket- 
match  without  carefully  keeping  the  score*  But 
Frederick  Wilding  was  the  finest  all-round  athlete 
Herefordshire  has  ever  produced,  and  his  name  and 
fame  are  still  remembered  at  Shrewsbury,  where  his 
long  jump  of  20  ft.  6  ins.  is  still  the  school  record, 
and  he  proved  himself  the  brainiest  of  bowlers.  He 
was  good  at  every  game  he  tried,  from  Rugby 
football  (which  is  the  national  game  of  New 
Zealand)  to  bowls  and  billiards.  On  one  occasion 
he  made  cricket  history ;  for  when  Shrewsbury's 
team  visited  New  Zealand,  some  thirty  years  ago, 
he  played  for  Eighteen  of  Canterbury,  taking  eight 
wickets  for  twenty-one  runs,  Lohmann  and  Briggs 
being  two  of  his  notable  victims.  And  seeing  that 
he  and  R.  D.  Harman  won  the  Lawn-Tennis 
Doubles  Championship  of  New  Zealand  five  times, 
it  is  easy  to  see  where  his  son  got  his  first  insight 
into  the  game  which  has  long  been  a  familiar 
diversion  in  every  civilised — or  uncivilised — part 
of  the  world. 

Fownhope,  the  home  of  the  Wildings  at  Christ- 
church,  was  named  after  the  village  on  the  winding 
Wye,  where  Frederick  Wilding's  father  practised  as 
a  country  doctor.  It  was  a  roomy  and  comfortable 
house,  with  spacious  verandas  in  an  extensive 
pleasance  of  orchards  and  flower-beds.  There  was 
— nay,  still  is — a  fine  grass  tennis-court,  and  beyond 
it  an  asphalt  court  with  a  volleying  board  at  the 
back  of  it.  Further  on  you  come  to  the  most 
joyous  thing  of  all — an  open-air  swimming-bath 
of  white  stone,  fed  with  the  diamond-water  from 
an  artesian  well  (by  way  of  a  fish-pond  on  a  terrace 


ANTHONY    WILDING  41 

above),  and  surrounded  by  an  evergreen  hedge.  In 
summer  this  hedge  is  covered  by  the  climbing  sweet- 
peas,  that  grow  so  luxuriantly  in  the  soft  New 
Zealand  air,  and  the  many  hues  of  the  fragrant 
blossoms,  seen  above  a  border  of  scarlet  poppies, 
would  be  mirrored  in  the  translucent  depths  of  the 
silver  bathing-pool.  Further  still  were  spacious 
meadows  extending  to  the  Opawa,  a  gentle  little 
stream  such  as  one  sees  in  Southern  England. 
Many  stay-at-home  Britons  believe  that  only  rude 
comfort  is  to  be  had  in  the  Dominions — that  a 
hasty  log-hut  is  the  best  habitation  one  can 
hope  to  find  there.  In  point  of  fact  the  English 
country-house  has  migrated  into  all  the  "  demi- 
Englands"  (Hanley's  phrase)  beyond  the,  narrow 
seas,  and  having  adapted  itself  to  a  new  climate 
and  a  new  environment  is  playing  its  old  part  as  a 
humanising  influence.  The  overseas  country-house 
is  not  as  large,  not  nearly  so,  as  that  which  is  a 
feature  of  every  English  landscape.  Lack  of  servants 
within  and  without,  together  with  the  exigencies  of 
climate  and  the  absence  of  great  fortunes,  accounts 
for  the  difference.  But  the  later  and  lesser  home, 
whether  in  the  rus  in  urbe  of  a  Canadian  city  or  in 
such  gracious  islands  as  the  New  Zealanders  possess, 
has  its  appropriate  amenities,  and  is  a  character- 
building  institution,  as  in  the  ancient  mother 
country.  .  .  .  The  charm  of  Fownhope  down  under 
was  reflected  in  the  charm,  indefinable  yet  so  de- 
finitely felt,  of  the  young  athlete  who  made  a  game 
of  lawn-tennis  almost  epical  in  its  appeal  to  the 
imagination. 

When  he  went  to  Cambridge  in  1902  Anthony 
Wilding  was  a  good  cricketer  as  well  as  a  lawn- 
tennis  player,  quite  up  to  the  inter-' Varsity  standard, 


42  A    SOUTHSIDE   SAXON 

though  perhaps  not  equal  to  the  necessities  of  the 
ultra-modern  game  as  played  in  the  Wimbledon 
Championships.  Had  he  made  cricket  his  chief 
pursuit  he  must  have  won  his  u  Blue "  long  before 
going  down.  But  he  chose  lawn-tennis  as  his  very 
own  game,  and  spared  no  pains  to  make  himself  a 
real  expert.  The  late  Kenneth  Powell  was  one  of 
many  witnesses  to  the  way  in  which  he  put  his 
mind  into  lawn-tennis,  whether  when  practising  the 
various  strokes  or  coaching  a  succession  of  Cam- 
bridge disciples.  There  was  much  to  learn  before 
he  himself  could  approach  championship  form.  He 
had  to  learn  to  meet  the  service  when  used  as  an 
attacking  force  of  the  first  importance.  He  had  to  get 
rid  of  the  ugly  and  cramped  backhand  drive  which 
he  brought  from  New  Zealand  —  such  English 
authorities  as  H.  L.  Doherty  warned  him  that  he 
must  "  anglicize "  this  stroke  if  he  wished  to  be 
absolutely  first-rate.  He  did  so  at  the  cost  of 
infinite  toil  and  trouble,  innumerable  hours  of  daily 
practice  which  could  give  no  pleasure  at  all,  for  the 
extirpation  of  a  youthful  habit  is  a  tedious  business 
for  the  most  adaptable  of  athletes.  In  the  end  he 
achieved  his  ambition.  He  won  the  All-England 
Championship  at  Wimbledon  in  1910,  and  the  little 
New  Zealand  nation — "little,  but  oh  my!  "  —rejoiced 
as  one  man  at  his  victory.  But  that  was  not  the 
climax  of  this  super-specialist's  career.  The  day  of 
all  his  athletic  days  came  in  1913,  when  he  met 
M.  E.  M'Loughlin,  the  American  champion,  in  the 
Challenge  round.  M'Loughlin,  after  a  narrow 
escape  from  defeat  by  the  astute  Roper  Barrett  on 
the  first  day,  had  reached  the  Challenge  round 
easily  enough,  thanks  to  his  terrific  service.  Though 
the  committee  changed  the  day  of  decision  from 


ANTHONY    WILDING  43 

Saturday  to  Friday — not  daring  to  face  the  dangers  of 
a  Saturday  crowd — more  than  seven  thousand  people 
were  on  the  ground  when  the  great  match  began. 
Hundreds  were  turned  away  from  the  gates; 
hundreds  saw  only  the  scoring  board ;  it  was  said 
that  patriotic  Americans  paid  ten  pounds  for  a  seat. 
They — the  Americans — were  willing  to  lay  odds  on 
the  young  California!^  and  M'Loughlin's  play  had 
been  so  impressive  that  there  were  very  few  takers. 
Only  two  or  three  critics  with  the  courage  of  their 
convictions,  who  saw  the  weakness  of  the  American's 
backhand  and  remembered  that  Wilding  had  beaten 
him  at  Sydney  in  1909  by  three  sets  to  one,  were 
certain  that  the  New  Zealander  would  win,  barring 
accidents.  M'Loughlin  won  the  first  two  games, 
and  the  American  spectators  were  in  throes  of 
delight.  But,  as  time  went  on,  it  became  evident 
that  the  New  Zealander  could  return  the  American's 
terrific  services  to  good  purpose,  that  he  was  prepared 
to  batter  away  relentlessly  at  the  latter's  weak  point, 
and  that  his  superior  strategy  was  constantly  giving 
him  control  of  the  court.  After  a  glorious  effort  to 
pull  the  match  out  of  the  fire  in  the  third  game, 
M'Loughlin  went  down — literally,  for  he  fell  head- 
long —  and  his  opponent  had  won  a  clear-cut 
victory  by  three  sets  to  none  (8-6,  6-3,  10-8). 
That  year  he  won  all  three  world's  championships 
—on  grass,  wood,  and  sand  courts — and  attained  a 
degree  of  all-round  strength  which  was  never 
equalled  by  himself  or  any  other  at  any  time  in  the 
history  of  the  youngest  of  the  Ludi  Humaniores. 
In  1914  Norman  Brookes  beat  him  in  the  Challenge 
round ;  the  born  player,  the  great  artist,  was  better 
on  the  day  of  decision  than  a  rival  of  equal  physique 
and  more  equable  temperament  who  had  more  of 


44          A    SOUTHSIDE   SAXON 

the  genius  for  taking  infinite  pains.  For  all  that, 
the  Wilding  of  1913  was  the  greatest  player  of 
lawn-tennis  we  have  ever  seen  or  ever  shall  see,  for 
more  than  one  generation  must  pass  away  before  the 
English-speaking  peoples  can  afford  to  cultivate 
athletics  as  in  the  happy,  reckless,  picturesque  past. 

Was  it  worth  while  to  give  the  golden  years  of 
youth  to  the  cultivation  of  a  game  which,  with 
all  its  merits,  lacks  the  joyous  rigour  and  kindly 
discipline  of  such  co-operative  pastimes  as  football 
or  cricket  ?  Yes — a  thousand  times  yes  ! — since 
Anthony  Wilding  found  it  worth  while  !  In  the 
first  place,  lawn-tennis,  which  is  played  all  over  the 
world,  is  one  of  the  very  few  games  in  which  men 
and  women  can  take  part  on  equal  and  enjoyable 
terms.  If  it  is  to  be  played  so  as  to  foster  the  mens 
sana  in  corpore  sano,  then  we  must  have  from  time 
to  time  both  male  and  female  players  who  set  an 
example  of  virtuosity.  Anthony  Wilding  carried 
on  a  tradition  of  scientific  endeavour  and  artistic 
form  which  began  with  Lawford  and  the  Renshaws, 
and  has  prevented  lawn-tennis  from  degenerating 
into  as  fatuous  a  means  of  time-slaughter  as  Mid- 
Victorian  croquet.  The  old  silly  "  patball  "  could 
never  give  the  health  and  happiness,  the  clear  eye 
and  clean  liver  and  release  from  workaday  cares 
which  are,  enjoyed  by  the  million  votaries  of  the 
modern  pastime.  And  the  health-giving  "  vigour 
of  the  game  "  as  now  played  is  the  outcome  of  the 
keenness  and  artistry  of  Anthony  Wilding  and  the 
other  famous  experts. 

Anthony  Wilding  was  essentially  a  man  of  action. 
He  was  not  a  scholar ;  he  despised  politics ;  he  had 
no  particular  liking  for  any  art,  save  the  art  of 
living.  He  had,  however,  a  real  love  and  sympathy 


ANTHONY    WILDING  45 

for  machines — those  strong,  uncomplaining  members 
of  the  second  creation  (Man's),  each  of  which  has 
its  own  little  personal  peculiarities.  He  treated 
these  strange  creatures,  which  musr  play  a  part  of 
ever-increasing  importance  in  the  great  drama  of 
modernity,  with  as  much  care  as  he  had  for  his 
own  body — a  mechanism  of  power  and  precision 
that  was  never  allowed  to  become  slack  for  a 
moment  or  lose  its  bright  vigour  through  any 
form  of  self-indulgence.  He  neither  smoked  nor 
drank;  he  never  played  the  man-about-town  nor 
even  dressed  the  part;  he  never  squandered  his 
time  and  himself  in  so-called  love  affairs.  Within 
and  without  he  was  as  clean  and  bright  as  a  new 
pin.  And  he  also  had  a  certain  bright  mysterious 
quality  which  caused  him  to  be  liked  at  first  sight 
by  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women. 
In  his  charming  biography  Mr  Wallis  Myers  de- 
fines this  rare,  elusive  gift  as  a  kind  of  Peter- 
Pannishness  : — "  Beneath  his  perfectly  developed 
frame  there  beat  the  heart  of  a  child.  Like  a 
child,  he  was  pure  and  ingenuous.  Like  a  child, 
he  was  unconscious  of  control  and  impatient  of 
discipline.  Like  a  child,  using  only  the  art  of 
an  unsophisticated  nature,  he  claimed  and  won 
indulgence.  Yet  when  the  real  test  came — in 
sport  or  in  war — Anthony  Wilding  revealed  a 
steadfastness,  a  faculty  for  concentration,  a  self- 
reliance  and  resourcefulness  which  made  up  a  strong 
character.  Physically  and  mentally  he  became  a 
man ;  spiritually  he  was  a  boy  until  the  end." 
I  believe  this  to  be  a  true  definition  of  his  peculiar 
charm,  which  closely  resembled  that  of  not  a  few 
famous  soldiers  of  the  past  and  present — men  in 
whose  character  a  simple  sincerity,  unconcealed  by 


46          A    SOUTHSIDE   SAXON 

pose  or  the  subtleties  of  intellectualism,  sends  to 
every  mind's  eye  a  white  beam  of  piercing 
brightness. 

When  war  broke  out  he  returned  to  England 
at  once  and  lost  not  a  moment  in  volunteering. 
Having  previously  held  a  commission  in  the  King's 
Colonials  ("colonial"  is  a  word  which  must  now 
be  scrapped  altogether),  his  way  to  a  suitable  job 
was  easy  enough.  His  knowledge  of  motor-cars 
and  skill  in  driving  them,  added  to  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  France  and  Belgium  gained  in  many 
visits,  caused  him  to  be  temporarily  attached  to  the 
Headquarters  Intelligence  Corps.  He  saw  at  once 
it  was  to  be  a  motor  war.  His  courage  and  cool- 
ness and  untiring  usefulness  were  immediately  recog- 
nized, and  he  was  transferred  to  the  Naval  Air 
Wing,  which  had  armoured  motor-cars  as  a  side- 
line. Commander  Sampson,  R.N.,  who  organised 
it  all,  testifies  that  he  found  Captain  Wilding  "  an 
extremely  cheery  messmate,  always  terribly  keen 
to  do  anything  to  help."  When  Commander 
Sampson  and  his  flying  squadron  went  to  the 
Dardanelles,  the  armoured  cars  were  left  behind  ; 
Wilding  was  for  a  time  at  a  loose  end,  the  useless- 
ness  of  his  machines  in  attacking  trenches  having 
been  demonstrated.  During  a  short  leave  in  England 
he  devised  a  two-wheel  trailer,  to  carry  a  3-pounder, 
which  was  very  mobile  over  rough  ground.  A 
strain  of  inventiveness  was  coming  out  in  him 
which,  had  he,  lived,  might  have  had  other  and 
invaluable  consequences.  It  was  due  to  his  faith 
and  persistency  that  the  trailer  design  was  adopted 
and  given  a  practical  trial.  "  My  own  little  stunt," 
as  he  described  it,  was  a  success,  for  the  3-pounders 
on  wheels  strafed  a  sort  of  hostelry  for  German 


ANTHONY    WILDING  47 

snipers.  He  received  a  little  command  of  his  own, 
and  on  May  2,  1915,  received  news  of  his  pro- 
motion to  the  rank  of  captain.  On  May  loth  he 
was  killed  by  a  shell,  and  was  buried  near  Neuve 
Chapelle.  Hundreds  of  letters  of  sorrow  and  sym- 
pathy were  sent  to  his  New  Zealand  home. 
Lieutenant-Commander  Chilcott  of  the  Royal 
Naval  Air  Service  wrote  as  follows :  "  I  had  learnt 
to  love  him  as  few  men  love  each  other.  My  ad- 
miration for  him  was  unbounded,  and  I  fear  it 
will  never  be  my  good  fortune  during  the  re- 
mainder of  my  travel  through  this  world  to  meet 
another  friend  with  a  nature  such  as  his.  I  always 
felt  that  he  was  an  example  to  his  fellow-men  in 
everything.  God  rest  his  great  soul." 

See  what  a  fine  and  indefatigable  soul  had  been 
trained  in  the  little,  familiar  lawn  with  its  white 
lines,  which  is  the  arena  of  the  youngest,  yet  most 
popular,  of  our  joyous  ball-games.  These  essentially 
English  games  must  never  be  given  up  to  please 
the  "  intellectuals  "  who  scoff  at  them  or  the  money- 
makers who  think  that  the  science  of  gaining  a 
livelihood  must  altogether  oust  the  art  of  living. 
To  forget  all  our  joyous  yv/^acrrucT?,  which  gives 
us  men  that  can  be  made  into  soldiers  in  a  few 
months,  would  be  to  "  Germanize  "  our  natural  life. 
It  would  be  a  fatal  folly. 


THE  MODERN  ACTOR 
BASIL  HALLAM 

BASIL  HALLAM  was  born  in  London, 
April  3,  1889,  was  educated  at  St  Andrews, 
,  Eastbourne,  and  Charterhouse,  made  his 
first  appearance  on  the  boards  (as  Basil  Radford) 
at  His  Majesty's  in  April  1908,  and  after  seven 
years  of  varied  stage-work  created  Gilbert  the 
Filbert  in  The  Passing  Shout,  produced  at  the 
Palace  Theatre  in  April  1914.  A  year  later,  being 
then  at  the  height  of  his  popularity,  he  volunteered 
for  the  Royal  Flying  Corps,  and  on  July  16,  1916, 
died  at  the  front,  the  parachute  by  which  he  was 
descending  failing  to  expand. 

His  career,  even  taking  only  the  stage  part  of  it, 
was  unique.  In  the  theatrical  world  it  is  as  rare 
for  a  man  to  be  a  public  idol  at  twenty-five  as  it  is 
common  for  a  woman.  This  and  this  alone  is  the 
reason  why  a  profession  that  has  liberally  responded 
to  the  call  to  arms,  and  has  written  its  name  large 
on  the  roll  of  honour,  furnishes  but  one  New 
Elizabethan  as  actor  pure  and  simple.  War 
demands  youth,  and  few  men  attain  high  stage  dis- 
tinction before  middle-age.  Further,  the  characters 
in  which  such  distinction  is  gained  are  very  seldom 
young  men.  Youth  has  its  charm,  but  all  else  is 
apt  to  be  vague,  undeveloped,  and  not  settled  or 
deep-rooted  enough  to  interest  greatly.  With  age 
the  character  hardens  and  one  plays  the  game  of 
life  with  a  full-sized  bat.  Where  an  actor,  what- 
ever his  age,  has  made  a  notable  impression  in  the 
part  of  a  young  man,  it  has  almost  invariably  been 
in  virtue  of  some  marked  eccentricity  or  of  a  strong 


Photo  by  Foulsham  and  Banff  id 

BASIL  HALLAM 
(CAPTAIN  AND  KITE-COMMANDER,  ROYAL  FLYING  CORPS) 


BASIL    HALLAM  49 

story  which  sweeps  him  along  in  its  current  so  that 
he  has  little  to  do  but  float.  Now  Gilbert  had 
neither  of  these  advantages.  He  had  no  strong 
story  at  the  back  of  him — his  life  was  but  a  routine 
of  futilities.  And  so  far  from  being  an  eccentric,  or 
viewed  as  one,  he  was  accepted  as  typical  of  a  not 
inconsiderable  section  of  our  community.  As 
stamped  by  Basil  Hallam  he  became,  as  it  were, 
legal  tender,  circulating  throughout  the  realm  as 
freely  and  unchallenged  from  mouth  to  mouth  as 
current  coin  from  hand  to  hand. 

The  case  would  be  the  less  remarkable  had  there 
been  the  resemblance,  too  often  traded  on,  between 
the  actor  and  the  part.  There  was  no  such  resem- 
blance. One  cannot  imagine  Gilbert  exerting  him- 
self unduly  over  sports.  Mr  Hallam  excelled  at 
racquets,  playing  for  Charterhouse,  and  in  after  life 
vigorously  keeping  his  hand  in  at  the  Bath  Club 
and  elsewhere.  Only  less  was  he  devoted  to  other 
games — as  lawn-tennis  and,  later,  golf.  He  believed 
in  keeping  himself  fit,  and  did.  The  man  who,  as 
Gilbert,  sang  every  evening 

"  I'm  called  by  two  and  by  five  I'm  out, 
Which  I  couldn't  do  if  I  slacked  about," 

might  every  morning  be  seen,  though  he  did  not 
ask  to  be,  running  round  the  Park  before  breakfast. 
Not  only  was  the  part  the  antithesis  of  the  actor, 
but  the  entertainment  in  which  it  occurred  was 
clean  outside  the  fairway  of  his  ambition  and 
interest.  When,  without  the  sanction  of  his  father, 
Mr  Walter  Hallam-Radford,  merchant,  and  Master 
of  the  Ironmongers'  Company,  he  determined  to  go 
on  the  stage,  his  objective  was  serious  drama,  and 
especially  Shakespeare.  Hence  one  day,  having  got 


50          THE    MODERN    ACTOR 

school-leave  to  come  up  to  London  to  see  his  dentist, 
he  contrived  to  visit  also  His  Majesty's  Theatre  and 
see  Sir  Herbert  Tree,  with  whom  he  had  no 
previous  acquaintance.  "  What  can  you  do  ? " 
asked  Sir  Herbert.  His  answer,  "  I  can  do  anything 
you  do,"  so  touched  Sir  Herbert  that,  after  hearing 
him  recite  a  passage  or  two  from  Hamlet,  he  assigned 
him  several  minor  parts  in  his  forthcoming  Festival 
of  1908.  Of  these  the  chief  was  Pistol  in  The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor — a  curious  experiment  of 
which  one  would  like  to  have  seen  the  result.  And 
though  destined  to  spend  most  of  his  stage  life  in 
modern  comedy  and  to  end  it  in  revue,  he  returned 
to  Shakespeare,  whose  works  he  had  from  an 
early  age  studied  closely,  as  often  as  he  had  the 
chance.  Thus  he  took  part  in  several  of  Mr  Robert 
Arthur's  1911  Commemoration  performances  at  the 
Coronet;  and,  immediately  before  appearing  as 
Gilbert,  played  Bassanio  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
at  the  Court,  repeating  the  performance  in  Paris, 
whither  the  company  subsequently  went.  In  this 
revival  Mr  Michael  Sherbrook  played  Shylock,  to 
play  which  part  was  the  dream  of  Hallam's  life. 
(What  would  Shylock  have  had  to  say  of  Gilbert, 
who  had  none  of  the  redeeming  qualities  of  the 
young  men-about- Venice  ?)  Even  stronger  proof 
of  his  ardour  for  Shakespeare  is  seen  in  his  partici- 
pation in  revivals  at  the  Royal  Victoria  Hall,  the 
only  theatre  in  London  in  which  Shakespeare  can 
feel  at  home  and  is  allowed  to  meet  his  audience 
face  to  face. 

Nor  of  the  parts  he  did  play  was  Gilbert  the  one 
he  liked  best.  His  favourite  part  was  Archie  Graham 
in  The  Blindness  of  Virtue,  a  seriously-intended  play, 
in  which  he  appeared  not  only  at  the  Little  Theatre, 


BASIL   HALLAM  51 

but  in  America.  There  he  acted  a  thoughtless  rather 
than  graceless  young  man  with  frank  and  natural 
address,  and  in  Ann — much  less  seriously  intended 
— he  played  no  less  engagingly  a  literary  youth  per- 
plexed by  the  wiles  of  woman.  Another  seriously- 
intended  play  in  which  he  appeared  was  "The  Next 
Religion,  and  another,  less  seriously  intended,  Mrs 
Dot.  He  did  other  comedy  parts  in  London,  on 
tour  with  Miss  May  Palfrey,  and  with  Miss  Billie 
Burke  in  America,  which  he  visited  twice.  But  all 
his  comedy  performances  were  swallowed  up  and  for- 
gotten in  his  solitary  performance  in  revue.  He  did 
not  seek  revue :  he  found  his  way  into  it  almost  by 
accident  and  by  way  of  musical  comedy.  Mr  George 
Edwardes  wanted  someone  to  play  Max  Dearly  in 
The  Girl  on  -the  Film  while  Mr  George  Grossmith 
was  away  in  Paris.  He  thought  of  Hallam,  whom 
he  knew,  and  so  Hallam  put  in  a  fortnight  at  the 
Gaiety.  Later,  when  lunching  at  the  Carlton, 
Hallam  fell  in  with  Miss  Elsie  Janis,  whose 
acquaintance  ,he  had  made  during  his  second  visit 
to  America.  She,  hearing  that  he  was  disengaged, 
as  he  conceived  himself  to  be,  and  the  Court  of 
Appeal  decided  that  he  was  right,  proposed  that  he 
should  join  her  at  the  Palace.  And  so  Gilbert  the 
Filbert ! 

However  heartily  Hallam  would  have  detested 
and  despised  Gilbert  in  life,  he  took  the  greater 
pains  to  do  him  justice  in  art.  Gilbert  has  a  song 
— indeed,  he  has  very  little  else — and  the  song  called 
not  only  for  singing  but  for  dancing.  Hallam  could 
dance,  of  course,  as  other  men  dance,  and  sang  fairly 
well  in  private,  though  he  always  preferred  to  recite, 
classical  pieces  for  choice.  But  here  a  great  deal 
more  was  demanded  than  mere  amateur  accomplish- 


52          THE   MODERN    ACTOR 

ment ;  the  least  failure  in  either  respect  and  Gilbert 
would  have  made  no  great  way  in  the  work.  So 
Hallam  set  himself  to  master  all  that  was  necessary  of 
singing  and  dancing,  with  what  brilliant  success  all 
that  saw  him  know.  He  could  not  have  done  more 
for  the  creation  had  he  loved  him,  or,  again,  had  it 
been  Shylock.  And  his  ambition  cannot  have  been 
wholly  out  of  his  mind,  for  it  was  again  April,  and 
Shakespeare  was  again  in  full  bloom.  Surely  there 
must  have  occurred  to  him  some  such  line  as — 

"  Oh !  to  be  in  Shakespeare,  now  that  April's  here." 

Strange  how  much  happened  to  Hallam  in  April ! 

It  is  no  more  necessary  to  describe  Gilbert  than  to 
describe  a  halfpenny  or  a  penny.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  in  April  1914  people,  who  had  already  suffered 
gladly  the  Johnny  and  the  Dude,  were  now  enam- 
oured of  the  Nut.  And  never  had  there  been  a  Nut 
to  compare  with  Mr  Hallam's — so  faultless  in  form, 
of  flavour  at  once  so  full,  so  rich  and  so  subtle.  The 
war  was  not  thought  of  then,  and  when  it  came 
three  months  later  it  found  Gilbert  the  Filbert  the 
most  popular  character  on  the  English  stage. 

And  it  was  the  war,  which  has  changed  so  much, 
that  proved  Hallam's  mettle  both  as  an  artist  and  as 
a  man.  It  is  true  that  Gilbert  had  "  made  good  " 
before  the  war  broke  out,  and  true  again  that,  when 
it  did  break  out,  some  time  elapsed  before  people 
could  re-discover  their  ideals  and  get  them  into 
working  order.  But  when  they  did,  Gilbert's 
position  remained  unshaken.  This  waster,  com- 
pared with  whom  the  Conscientious  Objector  is 
almost  a  hero,  went  on  changing  his  kit  (without 
wincing  at  the  expression)  and  counting  his  ties  as 
before.  And  the  public  stood  firm  by  him — not  only 


BASIL   HALLAM  53 

the  stalls,  but  the  gallery,  that  had  most  reason  to 
resent  his  existence.  Other  characters  of  the  same 
kidney  were  not  so  fortunate.  Some  were  immedi- 
ately withdrawn,  others  sought  re-election  only  as 
objects  of  scorn.  Even  the  admirable  Miss  Vesta 
Tilley  found  her  account  in  joining  the  Army  of 
to-day.  How  came  Gilbert  to  survive  where  so 
many  perished  ?  The  answer  is  that  Gilbert  was 
a  perfect  work  of  art,  and  that  as  Gilbert,  Hallam 
performed  the  feat,  little  short  of  a  miracle,  of 
making  a  London  audience  from  floor  to  ceiling 
artists  too. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  war  revealed  to  him  a 
duty  higher  than  the  ambition  of  playing  even 
Shy  lock.  It  revealed,  too,  a  new  field  in  which 
that  duty  might  be  honourably  discharged.  One 
who  knew  him  only  across  the  footlights  can  hardly 
think  of  him  as  a  soldier  in  the  trenches  or  as  a 
sailor  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  But  the  air,  the 
newly  discovered  and  still  uncharted  region,  the  air! 
Yes,  one  can  think  of  him  there.  It  was  there  he 
found  his  duty.  It  was  there  that,  after  more  than 
a  year's  service,  during  which  he  spent  but  one 
week  at  home,  and  was  promoted  to  be  captain 
and  kite-commander  on  account  of  extreme  courage 
and  control  shown  under  fire,  that  he  met  his  death. 
"  Courage  and  control " :  the  words  bear  thinking 
over.  Can  better  advice  be  given  to  an  actor  or  to 


anyone  ? 


G.  E.  M. 


THE  ABSOLUTE  POET 
CHARLES  HAMILTON  SORLEY 

CHARLES  HAMILTON  SORLEY  was 
born  at  Old  Aberdeen  on  May  19,  1895; 
he  was  the  son  of  W.  R.  Sorley,  who  is 
now  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University 
of  Cambridge.  From  1 900  onwards  his  home  was 
in  Cambridge;  and  he  was  at  Marlborough  College 
from  September  1908  until  December  1913,  when 
he  was  elected  to  a  classical  scholarship  at  University 
College,  Oxford.  After  leaving  school  he  spent 
rather  more  than  six  months  in  Germany.  He  was 
three  months  in  Schwerin,  learning  the  language  and 
seeing  something  of  German  provincial  society,  and 
then  for  another  three  months  a  student  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Jena.  At  the  outbreak  of  war  he  was  on 
a  walking  tour  with  a  friend  on  the  banks  of  the 
Moselle.  He  was  put  in  prison  at  Trier  on  the  2nd 
of  August,  but  released  the  same  evening  and  given 
a  passport  to  leave  the  country.  After  some  rather 
disconnected  travelling  he  reached  England  on  the 
6th,  and  at  once  applied  for  a  commission.  He  was 
gazetted  to  the  Suffolk  Regiment  later  in  the  month. 
He  became  lieutenant  in  November  and  captain  in 
the  following  August,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  he 
would  have  highly  distinguished  himself  in  the  voca- 
tion of  arms,  for  he  knew  how  to  handle  men  and 
gain  their  confidence,  and  had  that  carefulness  in  small 
matters  which  is  a  mark  of  the  good  regimental 
officer  who  must  leave  nothing  to  chance.  His 
battalion  was  sent  to  France  on  May  30,  1915, 
and  he  was  killed  in  action  near  Hulluch  on  October 
1 3th  in  the  same  year. 


54 


CHARLES    HAMILTON   SORLEY 

(CAPTAIN,  SUFFOLK  REGIMENT) 


CHARLES    SORLEY  55 

I  find  myself  regretting  that  his  father  has  not 
given  the  many  readers  of  his  poems  some  such 
reasoned  explanation  of  his  career  and  character 
(both  of  which  have  a  curious  look  of  complete- 
ness) as  that  in  which  Lord  Ribblesdale  has  dealt 
with  the  personality  of  his  son,  Charles  Lister,  in  a 
spirit  of  almost  scientific  disinterestedness.  Many 
others  have  felt  the  same  regret,  and  in  order  to 
satisfy  what  is  certainly  not  a  vain  curiosity  (for 
one  feels  that  greater  intimacy  would  make  for  a 
clearer  understanding  of  this  soldier-poet's  philosophy 
of  living)  the  third  edition  of  Marlborougb  and 
Other  Poems  contains  a  number  of  prose  passages 
from  letters  to  his  family  and  friends.  Naturally 
and  necessarily,  these  excerpts  contain  more  of  the 
stuff  of  true  autobiography  than  his  poems.  The 
most  sincere  of  poets — and  sincerity  is  as  a  wind  out 
of  the  Fens,  a  dynamic  and  all-pervading  bleak 
vigour,  in  this  poet's  verse — cannot  give  us  the  sheer 
truth,  as  he  feels  it,  in  the  form  of  rhyme  and 
rhythm.  The  artist  intervenes ;  and  even  if  there 
be  no  posing,  no  proleptic  feeling  of  quails  artifex 
pereo,  no  emotional  mimicry,  no  intellectual  look-see, 
yet  the  poet  can  never  become  even  a  close  approxi- 
mation to  the  man-in-himself.  It  is  impossible  to 
deduce  the  man  from  his  poetry ;  I  am  very  sure  of 
that,  having  known  both  major  and  minor  poets 
here  and  in  France  somewhat  intimately.  Turner's 
confession  that  painting  is  u  a  rum  job  "  is  applicable 
to  poetry,  which  is  perhaps  the  rummest  job  of  all. 
But,  as  you  talk  and  even  think  in  prose,  and  it 
is  not  a  resisting  medium  (until  a  style  is  deliber- 
ately cultivated),  letters  written  as  the  pen  flies  are 
often  reliable  evidence  of  the  scope  and  nature  of 
personality. 


56          THE  ABSOLUTE   POET 

The  released  fragments  of  Charles  Sorley's  occa- 
sional— and  casual — letters,  certainly  illuminate  his 
mentality  with  stray  lightning-flashes.  They  show, 
for  example,  how  deeply  he  realised  the  life  of  the 
Homeric  Age  and  its  strange  modernity  in  every- 
day essentials.  Helen,  he  says,  never  gives  him 
the  impression  of  being  quite  happy ;  he  thinks  that 
she  could  only  make  other  people  happy,  and  -con- 
sequently, another  set  of  people  miserable.  "  One 
of  the  best  things  in  the  Iliad"  he  goes  on  to  say, 
"is  the  way  you  are  made  to  feel  (without  any 
statement)  that  Helen  fell  really  in  love  with 
Hector — -and  this  shows  her  good  taste,  for,  of  all 
the  Homeric  heroes,  Hector  is  the  only  unselfish 
man.  She  seems  to  me  only  to  have  loved  to 
please  Menelaus  and  Paris,  but  to  have  really 
loved  Hector."  This  would  have  made  a  better 
reconstruction  of  Helen's  inner  life  than  Mr  Hew- 
lett's, which  so  absurdly  endows  Menelaus  with  the 
capacity  of  grand  passion  and,  what  is  still  more 
surprising,  the  power  to  renew  the  first  ardour  of 
possession — all  of  which  is  sheer  honeymoon-sun- 
shine. But  Mr  Hewlett  reduces  all  the  Homeric 
heroes,  and  even  the  cruder  and  more  cumbrous 
heroes  of  Northern  fighting  legends,  to  the  dimen- 
sions of  "  intellectuals "  flirting  over  tea-cups  and 
cucumber  sandwiches ;  the  lusty  love  of  good  eating 
and  good  drinking,  which  Charles  Sorley  under- 
stands so  well,  is  one  of  many  Homeric  qualities 
utterly  beyond  the  inventor  of  forest  lovers  who 
honeymoon  on  a  basis  of  hips  and  haws,  apparently, 
though  couching  on  upland  lawns  in  the  open  air. 
Again,  in  the  Helen  of  the  Odyssey,  "  bustling  about 
a  footstool  for  Telemachus  or  showing  off  her  new 
presents  (she  had  just  returned  from  a  jaunt  to 


CHARLES    SORLEY  57 

Egypt) — a  washing-tub  and  a  work-basket  that  ran 
on  wheels  (think !) "  what  should  Charles  Sorley 
see  but  "  the  perfect  German  Hausfrau."  What 
a  human  realisation  of  human  personages  !  And 
here  we  get  on  the  track  of  the  secret  of  his 
own  poetic  style,  which  at  high  moments  has  the 
vivid  precision  and  sad  earnestness  of  the  greater 
Greek  models — no  sentimentalists,  for  they  never 
could  stick  slovenly  thinking  or  sloppy  writing ! 
To  get  the  fair,  fresh,  naked  Hellenic  style  (as 
he  did,  and  Rupert  Brooke  never  did),  you  must 
have  reached  this  soldier-poet's  sound  working 
hypothesis  of  the  Hellenic  character.  An  exact 
knowledge  of  Greek  language  is  not  enough ; 
though  it  is  very  useful  as  a  training  in  scientific 
thinking  and  (as  a  soldier  and  scholar  told  me 
lately)  in  the  making  of  a  regimental  officer,  who 
has  to  attend  to  many  microscopic  matters  that  his 
men  may  be  comfortable.  "  Watching  the  ways  of 
particles,"  said  this  authority,  "  taught  me  how  to 
learn  all  the  little  tricks  of  this  queer  trade." 

Most  interesting — and  a  tonic  against  rancour  and 
repining  for  all  non-combatants,  who  have  not  the 
use  of  fighting  as  an  emotional  safety-valve — are 
the  passages  in  which  he  dwells  on  his  experiences 
in  peace-time  Germany.  He  saw  through  the  pan- 
German  types  readily  enough  ;  he  thought  them  the 
very  worst  results  of  1871.  "  They  have  no  idea 
beyond  c  The  State,'  and  have  put  me  off  Socialism 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  They  are  not  the  kind  of 
people  (as  the  Irish  R.M.  puts  it)  'you  could  borrow 
half-a-crown  from  to  get  drunk  with.'"  But  he 
liked  the  German  lack  of  reserve  and  self-conscious- 
ness. And  when  war  came,  he  was  not  to  be 
shocked  out  of  his  sense  of  justice ;  he  saw  and  said 


58         THE   ABSOLUTE   POET 

that  we  were  fighting,  not  a  bully,  but  a  bigot. 
What  follows  that  fine  epigram  contains  a  vindica- 
tion of  the  British  system  of  discipline  as  against 
the  Prussian  model,  which  is  now  a  rusty  machine 
in  danger  of  breaking  down  for  want  of  oil  :  — 

"  If  the  bigot  conquers  he  will  learn  in  time  his 
mistaken  methods  (for  it  is  only  of  the  methods  and 
not  of  the  goal  of  Germany  that  one  can  disapprove) 
—just  as  the  early  Christian  bigots  conquered  by 
bigotry  and  grew  larger  in  sympathy  and  tolerance 
after  conquest.  I  regard  the  war  as  one  between 
sisters,  between  Martha  and  Mary,  the  efficient  and 
intolerant  against  the  casual  and  sympathetic.  Each 
side  has  a  virtue  for  which  she  is  fighting,  and  each 
that  virtue's  supplementary  vice.  And  I  hope  that 
whatever  the  material  result  of  the  conflict,  it  will 
purge  these  two  virtues  of  their  vices,  and  efficiency 
and  tolerance  will  no  longer  be  incompatible. 

"  But  I  think  that  tolerance  is  the  larger  virtue  of 
the  two,  and  efficiency  must  be  her  servant.  So  I 
am  quite  glad  to  fight  against  this  rebellious  servant. 
In  fact,  I  look  at  it  this  way.  Suppose  my  platoon 
were  the  world.  Then  my  platoon  sergeant  would 
represent  efficiency,  and  I  would  represent  tolerance. 
And  I  always  take  the  sternest  measures  to  keep  my 
platoon  sergeant  in  check !  I  fully  appreciate  the 
wisdom  of  the  War  Office  when  they  put  inefficient 
officers  to  rule  sergeants.  Ads  it  omen!' 

He  must,  I  think,  have  come  in  time  to  think 
Germany  bully  as  well  as  bigot  and  to  loathe  her 
as  the  Greeks  loathed  the  tyrant  in  whom  there  was 
a  touch  of  the  yeasty  blood  of  the  Titans,  prisoned 
at  last  for  humanity's  safety  in  the  penal  abyss  by 
the  sunny-souled  gods  of  Olympus.  To  me  he 
seems  to  grow  more  and  more  Greek  and  to  justify 


CHARLES    SORLEY  59 

a  couplet  that  I  wrote  of  another  such  undying  proof 
of  the  validity  of  a  true  classical  training  :— 

"  I  deem  the  Englishman  a  Greek  grown  old, 
Deep  waters  crossed  and  many  a  watchfire  cold." 

Standing  as  he  did  on  the  watershed  of  English 
poetry  (his  own  metaphor)  the  cloistral  and  guarded 
poetry  of  Tennyson  and  the  like  was  not  for  him  ; 
he  felt  the  need  of  the  whole  world  of  men  to 
serve  as  inspiration.  But  he  would  have  kept  to 
the  straight  and  unadorned  style  which  makes  him  the 
antithesis  in  his  art  of  Rupert  Brooke,  that  laughing 
streamlet  of  chiming  thoughts  and  coloured  syllables. 
The  one  was  a  truth-seeker,  the  other  a  beauty- 
seeker.  But  either,  of  course,  found  that  which  he 
did  not  go  out  to  find.  But  Charles  Sorley  was  the 
modern  poet — for  it  is  of  the  essence  of  modern  poetry 
to  seek  truth  first  of  all,  nor  complain  if  glimpses 
of  the  beautiful  by  the  way  are  as  infrequent  as  wild 
flowers  in  the  autumnal  months. 

Charles  Sorley  had  not  the  rough,  compelling, 
strong,  triumphant  voice  he  admires  in  Mr  Mase- 
field — a  great  nature  (there  is  no  English  equivalent 
for  that  useful  term)  rather  than  a  great  poet,  whose 
chief  fault  is  that  he  is  too  much  of  a  rhetorician. 
But  he  is  above  and  beyond  the  mannered  subtle- 
ties of  Late-Victorian  poets  and  men  of  letters,  of 
whose  style  he  says  :  "  It  teems  with  sharp  saws  and 
rich  sentiment ;  it  is  a  marvel  of  delicate  technique ; 
it  pleases,  it  flatters,  it  charms,  it  soothes;  it  is  a 
living  lie."  He  is  strong  but  never  rowdy ;  in  the 
quest  for  new  matter  he  is  as  little  apt  to  lose  his 
temper  as  his  temperament.  The  beauty  of  the 
word,  the  fascination  of  phrase-making  are  not  for 
him,  who  must  show  the  truth  as  he  sees  it  without 


60          THE    ABSOLUTE    POET 

fear  or  favour.  Even  in  the  earlier  poems,  written 
at  school,  he  has  long  ago  left  the  highway  of  con- 
vention. He  loved  Marlborough  as  well  as  any 
boy  has  ever  loved  his  old  school :  the  windy, 
upland  scenery  of  the  place  is  vivid  in  remembrarice 
to  the  end,  and  furnishes  him  with  large  and 
picturesque  similitudes.  But  he  will  not  accept  the 
verdicts  of  that  microcosm,  and  he  sees  in  the 
so-called  "  wasters,"  who  get  no  thanks  for  the  little 
they  had  to  give  to  the  community  even  if  they  give 
all  and  are  clean  forgotten  :— 

"  Because  \ve  cannot  collar  low 
Nor  write  a  strange  dead  tongue  the  same 
As  strange  dead  men  did  long  ago  " — 

souls  that  are  reserved  for  something  finer  than  the 
winning  of  tassel'd  caps  or  scholarships  :— 

"  The  School  we  care  for  has  not  cared 
To  cherish  nor  keep  our  names  to  be 
Memorials.     God  hath  prepared 
Some  better  thing  for  us,  for  we 
His  hopes  have  known,  His  failures  shared." 

A  Talc  ofTivo  Careers,  Nov.  1912. 

All  wholesome  boy  poets  have  a  leaning  to 
melancholy  and  the  macabre,  as  every  teacher  of 
English  literature  in  a  great  school  knows,  or  ought 
to  know.  "  Wholesome "  seems  at  first  sight  a 
paradoxical  epithet — but  it  is  wholesome  to  be  your 
whole  self,  and  boyhood  is  a  period  of  sunny, 
unruffled  happiness  only  in  retrospect ;  in  reality  it 
is  a  time  of  light  and  gloom  which  breeds  many  a 
sick  fantasy  in  the  struggling  soul.  That  is  why 
Eugene  Aram  so  often  appeals  to  the  sixth 
form  poet,  practising  in  secret,  that  I  was  once  dis- 
posed to  consider  it  a  test  for  the  poetic  instinct. 
The  River,  a  picture  of  suicide,  is  Charles  Sorley's 


CHARLES    SORLEY  61 

one  essay  in  this  mode.  The  theme  is  nothing 
new,  but  the  treatment  is  all  his  own,  and  strangely 
impressive,  as  the  first  stanza  proves  :— 

"  He  watched  the  river  running  black 

Beneath  the  blacker  sky ; 
It  did  not  pause  upon  its  track 

Of  silent  instancy. 
It  did  not  hasten,  nor  was  slack, 

But  still  went  gliding  by." 

Not  desire  of  death,  but  the  compulsion  of  a  larger 
and  more  purposeful  life  caused  the  catastrophe  :— 

"  He  put  his  foot  upon  the  track 
That  still  went  gliding  by." 

A  drone-rhyme  runs  throughout  all  the  nine 
stanzas,  which  is  a  fine  and  appropriate  piece  of 
technique.  Minor  poetry  is  not  the  criticism  of  life, 
but  a  criticism  of  poetry.  But  even  Charles  Sorley's 
earlier  poems  criticise  life,  not  poetry,  and  are  quite 
free  from  the  learned  allusiveness  of  those  destined 
to  write  Prize  Poems  either  for  University  tribunals 
or  for  the  great  public  that  likes  "  scholarly  "  stuff, 
the  derivations  of  which  can  be  traced  without  too 
much  difficulty.  From  the  very  first  he  was  a 
major  poet ;  his  matter  life,  his  manner  formed  from 
within,  and  the  two  woven  together,  as  woof  and 
warp,  in  a  loom  of  his  own  invention. 

Whosoever  wishes  to  understand  his  later  poems 
must  get  the  book  in  which  they  are  collected,  and 
read  and  re-read  it.  The  language  is  diamond- 
clear  ;  even  in  the  pieces  hastily  written  in  the  field 
and  sent  home  unrevised.  But,  like  a  diamond  and 
unlike  glass,  they  are  not  to  be  seen  through  at  a 
glance.  The  few  brief  passages  quoted  below  are 
intended  to  persuade  the  reader  into  a  closer  study 
of  a  poet  whose  early  death  was  a  loss  to  English 


62          THE   ABSOLUTE   POET 

letters  as  great  as  Rupert  Brooke's — perhaps  greater, 
for  we  may  have  had  the  latter's  best,  whereas  the 
other,  having  Robert  Browning's  infinite  interest  in 
the  vastness  and  wonderment  of  modern  life,  and 
Emily  Bronte's  eager  undazzled  gaze  and  scorn  of 
evasive  verbiage,  must  have  climbed  to  heights 
unknown,  whereof  we  now  shall  know  nothing. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  it  seems  brave 
The  youthful  spirit  to  enslave,. 
And  hedge  about,  lest  it  should  grow. 
I  don't  know  if  it's  better  so 
In  the  long  end.     I  only  know 
That  when  I  have  a  son  of  mine, 
He  shan't  be  made  to  droop  and  pine, 
Bound  down  and  forced  by  rule  and  rod 
To  serve  a  God  who  is  no  God. 
But  I'll  put  custom  on  the  shelf 
And  make  him  find  his  God  himself. 
Perhaps  he'll  find  him  in  a  tree, 
Some  hollow  trunk  where  you  can  see. 
Perhaps  the  daisies  in  the  sod 
Will  open  out  and  show  him  God. 
Or  he  will  meet  him  in  the  roar 
Of  breakers  as  they  beat  the  shore  ? 
Or  in  the  spiky  stars  that  shine  ? 
Or  in  the  rain  (where  I  found  mine)  ? 
Or  in  the  city's  giant  moan  ?  " 

What  Tou  Will,  June  1913. 

"  We  swing  ungirded  hips, 
And  lightened  are  our  eyes, 
The  rain  is  on  our  lips, 
We  do  not  run  for  prize. 
We  know  not  whom  we  trust 
Nor  whitherward  we  fare, 
But  we  run  because  we  must 

Through  the  great  wide  air." 

The  Sons;  of  the  Ungirt  Runners, 

"  We  have  no  comeliness  like  you. 
We  toil,  unlovely,  and  we  spin. 
We  start,  return ;  we  wind,  undo  ; 
We  hope,  we  err,  we  strive,  we  sin, 


CHARLES    SORLEY  63 

We  love  :  your  love's  not  greater,  but 
The  lips  of  our  love's  might  stay  shut. 

We  have  the  evil  spirits  too 

That  shake  our  soul  with  battle-din. 

But  we  have  an  eviller  spirit  than  you, 

We  have  a  dumb  spirit  within  : 

The  exceeding  bitter  agony, 

But  not  the  exceeding  bitter  cry." 

To  Poets. 

"  I  have  a  temple  I  do  not 
Visit,  a  heart  I  have  forgot, 
A  self  that  I  have  never  met, 
A  secret  shrine — and  yet,  and  yet, 

This  sanctuary  of  my  soul 
Unwitting  I  keep  white  and  whole, 
Unlatched  and  lit,  if  Thou  should'st  care 
To  enter  or  to  tarry  there." 

Expectant  Expectavi,  May  1915. 

How  his  completeness  would  have  blossomed  to 
fruition  we  may  not  know.  But  we  know  he  was 
complete  in  soul,  and  so  would  write  on  the  cross 
over  his  grave  :  "  Being  made  perfect  in  a  little 
while,  he  fulfilled  long  years." 


THE  WILDERNESS  WINNER 
BRIAN  BROOKE 

IT  was  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  that 
men  began  to  leave  these  little  islands  to 
conquer  the  world's  wildernesses.  They 
passed  like  wind-blown  sparks  across  the  narrow 
seas  and  the  broad  oceans  beyond,  and  as  often  as 
not  no  tidings  of  their  fate  ever  reached  the  havens 
from  which  they  sailed  into  the  sunset — in  the 
firm  belief  that  the  rich  lands  of  the  sunrise,  which 
Marco  Polo  had  described,  could  be  reached  most 
quickly  and  at  least  cost  in  that  direction.  And 
from  then  to  now  this  radio-activity  of  our  race 
has  never  for  a  moment  ceased — indeed,  the  spirit 
of  adventuring  in  lands  forlorn  was  never  so  strong 
in  all  our  island-history  as  in  the  generation  of  the 
New  Elizabethans  which  has  died  that  Greater 
Britain  as  well  as  Great  Britain  may  live  happily 
ever  afterwards.  For,  as,  it  is  now  clear  that 
Germany  will  be  defeated  and  "  kraaled "  until 
Canada,  Australia,  and  South  Africa  have  grown 
up  into  Great  Powers,  the  British  Empire  is  sure 
of  at  least  as  long  a  lease  of  life  as  the  Roman 
Imperium.  As  Rome  taught  the  world  law,  so 
it  is  the  destiny  of  our  world-wide  commonwealth 
to  teach  equity  to  all  the  nations  and  languages 
within  its  kindly  and  unselfish  dispensation. 

How  deeply  the  desire  of  wilderness  winning  is 
rooted  in  our  race  may  be  gathered  from  the  British 
soldier's  curious  phrase  for  death  in  action :  "  Going 
West."  Death  is  for  him  the  greatest  of  all  ad- 
ventures ;  the  journeying,  by  a  long,  long  trail  of 
which  no  sure  chart  exists,  into  a  land  more 


C4 


BRIAN  BROOKE 
(CAl'TAIN,  GORDON  HIGHLANDERS) 


BRIAN    BROOKE  65 

wonderful  and  remote  than  that  on  the  unseen 
side  of  the  Moon.  "  I  would  have  emigrated  to 
Canada  after  the  war,"  said  a  mortally  wounded 
corporal  who  had  been  a  city  clerk  earning  355. 
a  week  for  ten  years,  "  for  I've  sweated  the  wood 
of  that  damned  desk  and  stool  out  of  my  system. 
That's  all  over  now,  but  somehow  I  can't  feel  sorry. 
Going  West'll  be  a  bigger  experience,  and  I'm  too 
curious  about  it  all  to  be  afraid."  It  is  certain  that 
a  great  many  of  those  who  survive  the  war  will 
never  go  back  to  their  old  humdrum  jobs  in  English 
towns.  Having  tasted  the  harsh  delights  of  danger- 
ous living  under  the  naked  sky,  and  knowing  as 
they  do  that  the  robust  health  that  comes  of  it  is 
the  greatest  of  all  joys,  they  can  never  return  to  sit  at 
a  desk  or  serve  a  machine  for  the  rest  of  their  days. 
So  they  too,  like  the  Elizabethans  that  were,  will 
go  forth  to  fight  against  the  brute  forces  of  Nature 
on  the  far  frontiers  of  civilization. 

Brian  Brooke  comes  into  this  list  of  New  Eliza- 
bethans as  the  most  perfect  type  of  the  wilderness 
winner.  It  is  a  type  more  common  in  Scotland 
than  in  England  ;  partly  because  life  beyond  the 
Cheviots  offers  fewer  opportunities  for  ambitious 
youth,  and  partly  because  the  Scottish  system  of 
education — the  best  in  these  islands — is  from  first 
to  last  a  training  in  self-reliance  and  adaptability. 
"My  people,"  said  the  late  Lord  Strathcona  to 
the  writer,  "  are  born  pioneers.  We  go  out  to 
new  countries  and  find  something  worth  doing 
there,  and,  when  we  have  made  our  fortunes,  as 
the  saying  is,  we  stay  there  to  show  others  how 
to  do  as  we  did."  So  it  comes  about  that  in  almost 
all  newly-developed  lands — especially  in  Western 
Canada — one  finds  the  business  leadership  in  Scottish 


66    THE   WILDERNESS    WINNER 

hands.  And  it  often  happens  that  these  local 
leaders  train  on  into  those  statesmen-capitalists  of 
the  Strathcona  type  who  have  done  more  than  all 
the  politicians  to  build  up  the  gigantic  fabric  of  our 
overseas  Empire — British  politicians,  indeed,  have 
really  done  more  to  hamper  than  to  help  the  carrying- 
out  of  that  tremendous  task. 

Had  he  lived,  Brian  Brooke  must  have  become 
one  of  the  architects  of  the  colossal  commonwealth, 
extending  from  the  Cape  to  Cairo,  of  which  British 
and  German  East  Africa — tropical  demesnes  with 
hilly  regions  where  a  white  man  can  live  and  keep 
his  health — must  form  the  keystone.  He  had  all 
the  qualities  one  finds  in  the  Empire-builders  like 
Cecil  Rhodes,  whose  hie  jacets  are  written  in  capital 
letters  on  the  world's  map.  In  the  first  place,  he 
took  the  precaution  of  being  born  in  a  part  of 
Scotland  which  produces  characters  of  living  granite 
— men  and  women  whose  purposeful  lives  cannot 
be  shattered  by  any  shock  of  circumstance.  And 
he  had  Irish  as  well  as  Scottish  blood  in  his  veins, 
so  that  a  due  measure  of  the  perfervidum  ingenium 
Scotorum  l — the  Celtic  energy  that  burns  up  all 
obstacles  in  its  way — was  combined  in  him  with 
practical  common  sense  and  inexhaustible  staying- 
power.  He  was  born  at  Lickleyhead  Castle,  in 
Aberdeenshire,  on  December  9,  1889,  being  the 
third  son  of  Captain  H.  V.  Brooke,  formerly  of  the 
92nd  Gordon  Highlanders,  and  grandson  of  the  late 
Sir  Arthur  Brooke,  M.P.,  of  Colebrooke,  County 
Fermanagh,  Ireland.  On  his  mother's  side  he  came 
of  an  old  Jacobite  family,  which  has  kept  the  white 
rose  of  a  tradition  that  set  honour  and  loyalty  to  a 
lost  cause  high  above  all  earthly  rewards.  The 

1  The  Scoti  of  this  quotation,  so  often  misused,  were  Irishmen. 


BRIAN    BROOKE  67 

Celtic  sense  of  other-worldly  things  gave  him  the 
freedom  of  fairyland  in  his  childhood.  He  lived  in 
a  world  apart  as  a  child — a  world  of  fairies,  gnomes, 
and  aerial  spirits  whose  chronicles  he  knew  by  heart, 
and  would  often  rehearse  as  he  sat  by  the  hour 
under  a  brier  bush.  The  winged  creature,  small 
but  wondrous  wise,  that  inhabits  a  daffodil  bell  was 
as  real  to  him  as  the  birds  and  beasts  that  were  his 
visible  comrades.  He  had  a  great  and  engrossing 
tenderness  for  all  the  little  lives  about  him.  He 
would  run  out  in  a  rainstorm  to  cover  up  some 
cherished  family  of  nestlings  with  a  large  leaf — an 
inconvenient  coverpane,  no  doubt,  from  the  mother- 
bird's  point  of  view !  Once,  when  he  was  ill  with 
scarlet  fever,  he  insisted  on  watching  a  favourite 
goldfish  which  was  dying — and,  suddenly,  a  joyous 
thought  caused  his  face  to  be  lit  up  from  within,  and 
he  exclaimed :  "  Mother,  if  that  little  goldfish  dies 
just  before  I  die,  I  will  hide  it  away,  and  then  I 
will  take  it  up  to  Heaven  with  me."  This  tender 
regard  for  weak  and  broken  lives  found  an  un- 
expected expression  later  'on ;  as  also  did  his  sym- 
pathetic study  of  the  ways  of  wild  creatures. 

Presently  the  fairies  were  forgotten,  and  the 
boy's  mind  was  filled  with  an  endless  procession  of 
fighting  gods  and  demi-gods,  legendary  chieftains, 
knights  in  glittering  harness,  famous  commanders  of 
ancient  and  modern  times.  He  still  loved  the  open- 
air  life  best  of  all;  like  the  Douglas  of  Border 
ballads  he  would  sooner  hear  the  lark  sing  than  the 
mouse  cheep.  But  every  moment  which  had  to  be 
spent  indoors  was  devoted  to  making  battle-pictures, 
in  which  his  favourite  hero  for  the  moment  led  his 
men  to  victory  or  perished  gloriously.  He  felt  in 
himself  the  qualities  of  William  of  Deloraine,  that 


68    THE   WILDERNESS    WINNER 

stark  moss-trooping  Scot,  and  dreamed  of  strange 
victories  such  as  that  won  by  a  dreamer  whose 
dream  came  true  : — 

But  I  have  dreamed  a  wearie  dream 
Beyond  the  Isle  of  Skye, 
I  saw  a  dead  man  win  a  fight, 
And  I  think  that  man  was  I. 

His  three  brothers  were  in  the  Services,  two  in 
the  Army  and  one  in  the  Navy;  so  that  family 
traditions,  as  well  as  his  own  vehement  desire,  urged 
him  to  become  a  soldier.  But  his  eyesight  was 
imperfect,  and  the  oculists,  in  those  days  when  an 
officer  in  spectacles  was  unthinkable,  could  give  him 
but  scant  hope  of  passing  the  medical  examination. 
So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  be  a  colonist,  and 
presently  all  his  energies  were  concentrated  on  pre- 
paring for  that  high,  Elizabethan  vocation.'  The 
man  of  action  had  now  definitely  emerged  ;  the 
winning  of  a  junior  boxing  competition  at  Clifton 
College  was  a  turning-point  in  the  life  of  this 
dreamer  of  dreams.  But,  after  all,  there  is  an 
idealist  latent  in  every  man  of  action.  Is  not  that 
one  of  the  chief  lessons  we  learn  from  the  lives 
of  all  the  great  soldiers  and  seamen  and  Empire- 
builders  ? 

Before  he  was  sixteen  Brian  Brooke  asked  to  be 
taken  away  from  Clifton  so  as  to  attend  classes 
especially  planned  to  prepare  students  for  a  colonial 
career.  This  specific  training  he  obtained  at  Aber- 
deen University,  and  also  at  Gordon's  College, 
where  Byron  studied.  But  attendance  at  classes  on 
veterinary  hygiene,  first-aid,  mechanics,  carpentry, 
agriculture,  book-keeping,  etc.,  etc.,  which  involved 
a  daily  trudge  of  twelve  miles,  did  not  seem  to  him 
a  complete  preparation  for  the  rough  life  of  a  wilder- 


BRIAN    BROOKE  69 

ness  winner.  So  he  deliberately  set  to  work  to 
provide  himself  with  a  body  big  and  strong  enough 
to  bear  any  amount  of  roughing  it.  For  example, 
during  the  two  years  of  training  he  refused  to  sleep 
indoors.  As  a  rule  he  would  sleep  in  a  little  wooden 
hut ;  and,  when  the  week-end  brought  release  from 
his  studies,  he  would  spend  his  nights  in  the  woods 
rolled  up  in  rugs,  even  though  the  grim  countryside 
was  deep  in  snow.  He  subsisted  chiefly  on  the 
game  he  shot,  cooking  it  at  an  open-air  fire,  after 
the  manner  of  Western  hunters  and  trappers.  Now 
and  again  a  particular  boy  friend  was  invited  to 
share  the  amenities  of  his  woodland  existence,  but 
those  guests  almost  always  failed  to  "  make  good," 
and  went  away  convinced  that  the  stern  joys  of 
pioneering  were  not  for  them.  Brian  Brooke's  idea 
of  a  real  holiday  also  harmonised  with  his  set  plan 
of  open-air  physical  culture.  He  would  wander 
about  the  country  disguised  as  a  vagrant  piper,  play- 
ing through  the  villages,  and  sometimes  giving  a 
silver  coin  as  change  for  a  bawbee,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  lover  of  pipe-music  and  his  own  secret 
amusement.  In  this  disguise,  which  often  deceived 
both  servants  and  mistresses  at  friends'  houses,  he 
would  cover  many  miles  in  a  day ;  on  one  occasion 
he  walked  sixty  miles  between  sunrise  and  sunset. 
And  the  reward  of  all  this  rough,  joyous,  open-air 
living  was  this — from  a  slender  stripling  with  no 
physique  worth  mentioning  he  grew  up  into  a 
sturdy  youth  of  great  stature  and  enormous  strength, 
who  could  do  more  than  a  man's  work  and  endure 
any  hardship  without  fatigue.  He  felt  equal  to  his 
life's  task  before  his  eighteenth  year,  when  he  left 
Scotland  to  settle  on  land  bought  for  him  in  British 
East  Africa.  Inaction  had  sown  in  him  the  seeds  of 


yo    THE   WILDERNESS    WINNER 

restlessness ;  at  the  age  of  seventeen  and  a  half  he 
wrote :  "  I  have  only  one  great  possession ;  that  is 
youth,  and  it  is  slipping  away  from  me  !  "  Perhaps 
the  Celtic  seer  in  him  had  muttered  that  he  had  no 
time  to  lose. 

In  British  East  Africa  he  soon  emerged  from  the 
ruck  of  indistinguishable  settlers,  the  men  who 
follow  the  lead  of  others,  and  succeed  or  fail  through 
the  force  of  circumstance.  At  school  he  had  found 
the  learning  of  languages  —  Greek,  Latin,  and 
French — a  burdensome  business.  But  he  quickly 
mastered  the  native  tongues  of  his  new  environment, 
and  was  soon  accepted  by  his  white  neighbours  as 
an  authority  on  aboriginal  manners  and  customs. 
He  entered  into  blood-brotherhood  with  the  Masai, 
the  ceremony  giving  him  certain  rights  and  privi- 
leges among  the  tribesmen.  The  Masai  admired 
his  great  strength  and  high  courage,  which  enabled 
him  to  meet  and  kill  a  leopard  while  on  foot  and 
armed  with  nothing  but  a  native  spear.  He  did  this, 
not  out  of  a  spirit  of  bravado,  but  to  convince  his 
blood-brothers  that  they  were  wrong  in  thinking 
that  there  is  anything  a  black  can  do  which  cannot 
be  done  by  a  white  man.  Like  Stevenson  in  Samoa, 
he  earned  a  native  name  ;  the  Masai  knew  him  as 
Korongo  ("  The  Big  Man  "),  which,  as  an  autho- 
rity on  their  language  tells  me,  was  a  tribute  not 
only  to  his  physical  powers,  but  also  to  the  great- 
ness of  character  which  they  discerned  in  him.  It 
is  clear  he  knew  the  secret  of  impressing  a  savage 
people  who  judge  a  white  man  by  what  he  does 
and  is,  not  by  what  he  says — that  secret,  unknown 
to  the  Germans,  which  enables  us  to  impose  the 
Pax  Britannica  on  uncivilised  hordes  by  the  might 
of  sheer  personal  prestige.  Brian  Brooke  had  the 


BRIAN    BROOKE  71 

rare  qualities  of  one  of  those  famous  administrators, 
men  of  action  and  men  of  transaction  as  well,  who 
have  accomplished  so  many  bloodless  conquests  in  the 
tropical  regions  which  Germany  hoped  to  win  from 
us.  Except  for  a  visit  to  Scotland  and  a  few 
months  spent  in  Ceylon,  where  he  found  the  busi- 
ness of  tea-planting  uncongenial  and  caught  malarial 
fever,  he  gave  all  his  time  and  all  himself  to  the 
silent  building  up  of  Central  Africa,  his  own  dear 
mistress-land.  He  had  the  wilderness  hunter's 
instinct,  and  he  was  much  sought  after  as  an  organizer 
of  expeditions  in  quest  of  big  game.  As  he  tells  us 
in  his  verse — of  which  more  anon — he  had  little 
but  contempt  for  some  of  the  expensive  sportsmen 
who  indulge  in  battue  shooting  at  home  and  go  to 
British  East  Africa  for  a  sumptuous  sporting  tour  : — 

Well  armed  with  musical  boxes,  and  loaded  with  gramophones, 
Butterfly  nets  for  beetles  and  bugs,  and  tins  for  the  precious 

stones, 
While  under  their  stacks  of  rifles  the  black   man   sweats  and 

groans. 

The  best  of  wilderness  sport  is  that  it  requires  you 
to  be  your  own  gamekeeper ;  to  know  the  habits 
of  game  so  well  that  you  can  find  them  at  any 
hour  of  the  day  or  night,  and  to  be  capable  of 
caring  for  your  own  weapons.  All  this  fascinating 
work,  as  well  as  the  keen  pleasure  of  rest  after 
roughing  it  in  lonesome  places,  is  apt  to  be  missed 
by  the  millionaire  in  search  of  trophies  for  the  walls 
of  his  newly-purchased  palace. 

The  outbreak  of  war  found  Brian  Brooke  acting 
as  transport  officer  on  the  Jubaland  frontier.  No 
doubt  his  many  wanderings  in  British  East  Africa 
and  Uganda  and  in  non-British  demesnes  had  given 
him  an  insight  into  the  German  plan  for  creating 


72    THE    WILDERNESS    WINNER 

footholds  of  departure  for  African  conquests.  He 
must  have  heard  the  rumours — never  believed  at 
home  in  the  last  years  of  a  century  of  slothful 
peace,  but  now  known  to  fall  short  of  the  truth— 
of  Germany's  attempt  to  create  a  huge  black  army 
of  Askaris,  the  finest  fighters  in  all  Africa,  which 
should  give  her  the  control  of  the  whole  continent 
as  soon  as  the  Central  Powers  were  victorious  in 
Europe.  That  would  have  been  an  army  after 
the  German  heart ;  for  the  Askaris  can  "  live  on 
the  population "  of  an  enemy  country,  and  would 
have  saved  their  overlords  the  cost  of  commissariat 
and  feeding  prisoners  with  handfuls  of  meal.  Brian 
Brooke  played  his  part  in  saving  Africa  from  the  un- 
speakable horrors  of  those  black  wars  for  the  control 
of  the  Tropics,  which  had  long  since  been  worked 
out  in  the  Pan-German  mind.  He  hastened,  riding 
night  and  day,  to  Nairobi,  and  enlisted  as  a  trooper 
in  the  ranks  of  the  British  East  African  field-force. 
Almost  at  once  he  rose  from  private  to  sergeant, 
from  sergeant  to  captain.  He  was  wounded  in  a 
night  attack,  narrowly  escaping  with  his  life,  but 
was  back  at  his  post  again  within  thirty-six  hours. 
When,  however,  the  African  peril  was  well  in  hand, 
thanks  to  the  military  genius  of  General  Jan  Smuts, 
he  longed  to  be  fighting  in  the  theatre  of  war,  where 
his  military  instinct  assured  him  the  final  decision  was 
to  be  expected.  Moreover,  at  that  very  moment 
news  came  to  him  of  the  heroic  death  of  his  brother, 
Captain  J.  A.  O.  Brooke,  who  received  the  post- 
humous honour  of  the  Victoria  Cross  for  most 
conspicuous  bravery.  Korongo  went  to  England 
to  get  himself  transferred  to  his  father's  and  brother's 
famous  regiment.  The  offer  of  a  good  appoint- 
ment on  the  staff  of  the  force  advancing  into 


BRIAN    BROOKE  73 

German  East  Africa  was  declined.  Eventually  he 
was  gazetted  as  captain  in  the  2nd  Battalion  of 
the  Gordon  Highlanders.  During  his  training  at 
Aberdeen  he  learnt  to  know  all  his  men  in- 
dividually. Thus  he  lived  up  to  the  fine  Scottish 
tradition  of  camaraderie  between  commanders  and 
commanded  (based  on  the  creed  that,  though  of 
different  ranks,  all  are  gentlemen  born)  which  is 
so  nobly  expressed  in  Lieutenant  E.  A.  Mackintosh's 
poem  addressed  to  the  fathers  of  his  lost  comrades. 

He  had  but  three  weeks  on  the  West  Front  in 
which  to  show  his  genius  for  soldiering.  Yet  in 
that  narrow  space  of  time  he  proved  himself  his 
father's  son,  his  brother's  brother.  When  the  Great 
Push  began  at  Mametz,  on  July  I,  1916,  he  was 
in  command  of  the  right  wing  of  the  Gordons, 
including  his  own  beloved  B  Company.  Though 
wounded  in  the  leg  as  he  went  over  the  top,  he 
continued  to  lead  the  attack,  he  and  the  other 
officers  and  his  men  marching  steady  and  solid  as 
though  on  parade.  When  the  two  front  trenches 
held  by  the  Germans  were  taken  he  was  wounded 
in  the  arm.  At  the  third  trench  he  fell  with  his 
third  wound,  a  mortal  injury  in  the  neck.  He  died 
after  weeks  of  agony,  borne  without  a  word  of  com- 
plaint, his  only  regret  being  that  he  was  not  with 
the  few  men  of  his  company  who  had  survived 
Mametz.  They  also  longed  in  vain  to  see  him 
once  more ;  they  said  :  "  We  would  have  followed 
him  anywhere,  even  to  the  gates  of  Hell."  He 
was  mentioned  in  the  despatch  from  Sir  Douglas 
Haig  which  was  published  on  January  4,  1917. 

The  intimate  record  of  his  life  as  a  wilderness 
winner  is  the  book  of  adventurous  verse,  which  was 


74   THE   WILDERNESS    WINNER 

published — with  a  brief  but  inspired  Memoir  by 
Miss  M.  P.  Wilcocks  —  about  a  year  after  his 
death.  Brian  Brooke  cared  nothing  for  the  nice 
manipulation  of  rhyme  and  rhythm  ;  he  was  no 
hunter  of  the  mot  juste,  but  took  the  first  word 
that  came  into  his  mind ;  and  the  everlasting 
jog-trot  of  his  anapaests  is  at  times  intolerable  to 
the  critical  ear,  trained  in  the  subtleties  of  modern 
poetical  craftsmanship.  Indeed,  his  ballads  have 
been  condemned  as  a  bad  amalgam  of  Kipling  at  his 
worst,  indifferent  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon,  and  G.  R. 
Sims  at  his  best.  For  all  that  they  are  full  of  living 
pictures  of  British  East  Africa,  and  of  the  social 
derelicts  who,  whatever  their  faults  may  be,  do  the 
spade-work  of  Empire-building.  So  that  they  do 
really  constitute  a  "  criticism  of  life,"  to  use  Matthew 
Arnold's  phrase,  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  called  a 
paradoxical  person  if  I  venture  to  define  them  as 
poetry  without  prosody — which  is  a  better  and  much 
rarer  thing  than  prosody  without  poetry.  In  such 
haphazard,  helter-skelter  stuff  as  The  Song  of  the 
Bamboos,  with 

Its  endless  shuffle  and  distant  boom, 
Murmuring  mutter  of  men  who  grieve, 

a  note  is  struck  and  sustained  which  must  stir  the 
heart  of  every  man  who  has  lived  in  our  half- 
finished  tropical  demesnes!  There  the  voice  of 
the  bamboos,  that  bend  but  break  not,  can  never  be 
evaded,  and  here  is  the  message  and  menace  they 
say  and  sing  even  when  there  seems  to  be  no  wind 
at  all : — 

On  the  Abadares  you  will  always  find  us, 
Singing  of  death  and  forgotten  hopes. 
On  Killamonjaro  grows  our  crop, 
And  struggling  right  to  the  very  top 


BRIAN    BROOKE  75 

You'll  find  us  dense  on  the  Killan  Kop, 

And  along  the  hills  of  the  Kenia  slopes. 

And  always  something  is  left  behind  us 

In  those  who  happen  beneath  our  thrall ; 

If  bad,  the  remaining  good  we  kill, 

If  straight,  then  we  turn  them  straighter  still ; 

Only  invertebrates'  hearts  we  fill 

With  the  awful  knowledge  of  nought  at  all. 

That  is  the  tragedy  of  the  unsuccessful  settler  in 
the  hard-won  wilderness ;  to  know  that  there  is 
nothing  in  him  after  all,  that  he  lost  all  when  he 
turned  his  back  on  an  old  land  of  comfortable  con- 
ventions. Now  and  again,  as  in  Labour,  Brooke 
doles  out  good  advice  to  the  newcomer,  warning 
him  that  his  first  and  last  duty  is  to  maintain  the 
prestige  of  white  men  among  black  men  : — 

While  we  rule  by  our  sense  of  honour, 
While  we  rule  by  our  strength  of  will, 
In  a  thousand  years,  ye  need  have  no  fears, 
They'll  find  that  we're  ruling  still. 

And  still  there's  another  great  danger, 

And  perhaps  it  is  just  as  bad, 

The  man  who  will  play  with  his  boy  all  day, 

He's  a  mixture  of  fool  and  cad. 

'Tis  gen'rally  wrought  by  a  stranger, 

While  he's  buying  experience, 

And,  unless  he's  wrong,  it  does  not  take  long 

To  teach  him  a  bit  of  sense. 

And  he  who  is  constantly  turning, 

Who  romps  like  a  great  baboon, 

Who  wrestles  his  boy  in  the  morning  with  joy 

And  flogs  out  his  soul  at  noon ; 

'Tis  time  that  these  men  started  learning : 

A  nigger  cannot  be  his  toy, 

His  dog  he  can  pat  and  play  with  his  cat, 

But  he  never  must  rag  with  his  boy ! 

No  better  advice  could  be  given  to  those  who  find 
themselves  in  contact  with  the  strange  races,  half 


76    THE   WILDERNESS    WINNER 

devil  and  half  child,  which  no  other  colonizing  nation 
— and  least  of  all  the  Germans — have  ever  yet  learnt 
to  use  aright.  In  Through  Other  Eyes  his  burning 
indignation  at  cruelty  to  the  dumb  slaves  of  man, 
nowhere  worse  used  than  in  Africa,  is  expressed  in 
the  prayer  of  a  dying  trek-ox  : — 

Sold  to  civilization,  bound  to  the  yoke  and  chain  : 

Never  in  all  creation  suffered  a  beast  such  pain ; 

Flogged  they  my  hide  to  jelly,  right  from  the  flanks  to  hump, 

Fires  beneath  my  belly,  tail  twisted  off  to  stump. 

Neck  rubbed  raw  with  the  timber,  blood  on  my  knees  does  splash: 

"  Whip  up  that  red  ox  Simba  :  "  one  eye  goes  with  the  lash. 

Trained  by  a  brutal  master ;  never  seen  ox  before : 

"  Get  the  work  done  and  faster  !  "  that  was  his  working  law. 

License  your  motor-drivers,  motors  can  feel  no  pain ; 

We  are  the  honest  strivers, — God,  do  I  plead  in  vain  ? 

But  it  is  to  the  derelict,  the  strong  man  with 
weaknesses,  the  outlaw  who  is  down  and  out,  that 
his  thoughts  recur  again  and  yet  again ;  and  a 
singular  power  of  psychical  mimicry  is  revealed  in 
A  Night  on  the  German  Frontier  and  other  ballads 
of  the  kind.  To  touch  ivory,  he  says,  is  always  a 
first  step  on  the  track  to  damnation,  and  here  is  his 
picture  of  an  ivory-hunter  come  to  the  last  step 
of  all :— 

Here  I  sit,  a  blooming  outlaw,  with  my  rifle  'cross  my  knees, 

And  my  ivory  is  buried  at  my  feet ; 

And  the  only  shelter  left  me,  is  the  shelter  of  the  trees, 

And  my  fire's  so  low,  I  scarcely  feel  its  heat. 

And  my  niggers  all  have  bolted  :  how  I  hope  their  blood  may 

freeze ! 

It's  a  way  they  have,  when  posho's  running  short ; 
And  I've  only  got  three  cartridges,  and  dare  not  fire  these, 
For  I  never  know  the  moment  I'll  be  caught. 
Now,  for  years  the  Germans  sought  me,  still  I'm  quite  alive  and 

free ; 
But  I've  had  my   swing,  so  reckon   soon,  their  day  will  have 

to  be, 
But  guess  they'll  have  to  be  wide-awake,  the  day  they  lasso  me. 


BRIAN    BROOKE  77 

It  is  a  grim,  garish  story  that  follows  and  finishes 
in  the  vast,  dreary  African  dawn. 

It  is  in  Nature,  however,  that  his  own  philosophy 
of  living  is  fully  revealed  : — 

But  the  things  I  love  in  nature  are  the  height,  the  depth,  the 

length 

Of  the  mountains  and  the  ocean  and  the  plain, 
All  the  things  that  tell  so  wondrously,  the  magnitude  and  strength 
Of  the  hand  that  made  the  things  which  will  remain. 

He  also,  now  that  he  has  gone,  looms  up  as  the 
shadow  of  a  magnitude,  a  man  who  was  greater 
than  all  the  things  he  had  time  to  do  and  be,  a 
great  man  in  the  making  whose  early  death  was  a 
disaster. 


THE  JOYOUS  CRITIC 

DIXON  SCOTT 

IN  the  heavy  toll  that  the  war  has  exacted  from 
our  young  men  of  high  literary  promise,  the 
death  of  Dixon  Scott  must  be  accounted  not 
the  least  grievous  incident.  For  in  this  country  the 
true  critical  faculty  is  perhaps  rarer  than  the  poetic ; 
and  Dixon  Scott  was  a  born  critic.  It  is  true  that 
he  left  behind  him  little,  as  far  as  mere  bulk  goes, 
that  is  capable  of  collection  and  republication  in 
witness  to  his  matured  talent ;  but  it  is  more  than 
enough  to  make  manifest  the  great  gift  that  was 
his,  and  to  justify  a  poignant  sense  of  what  English 
letters  has  lost  by  the  untimely  extinction  of  such 
a  light.  Of  many  even  accomplished  writers — and 
especially  of  those  who  practise  journalism — it  may 
be  said  that  they  adopt  the  vocation  because  they 
must,  and  not  because  they  will.  With  Dixon 
Scott  the  career  was  predestined — it  opened  to  the 
talents.  He  wrote  because  he  had  something  to 
say  that  must  find  utterance,  and  because  literature 
to  him  was  as  the  zest  of  life.  It  was  not  merely 
a  hobby ;  it  haunted  him  like  a  passion.  For  him, 
in  a  special  sense,  syllables  ruled  the  world. 

When  I  first  met  Scott  he  was  twenty-seven 
years  old,  and  he  was  just  beginning  to  find  his 
way  in  the  art  of  self-expression.  I  remember  that 
my  first  impression  of  him  was  as  of  a  hungry  raven 
fledgling.  He  seemed  all  eyes  and  beak  and  black 
plumage ;  and  he  was  so  eager,  so  avid  for  every 
bringer  of  new  things.  The  exuberance  which  his 
writing  reveals  was  the  reflection  of  his  intense  and 
vivid  interest  in  what  he  worked  in.  All  his 

78 


DIXON    SCOTT 

(LIEUTENANT,  3RD  WEST  LANCASHIRE  BRIGADE  R.F.A. ) 


DIXON    SCOTT  79 

senses  were  at  full  stretch  to  receive  impressions ; 
all  his  mind  was  intended  on  the  matter  of  his 
study.  He  was  the  craftsman  delighting  in  his 
craft,  and  impatient  to  acquire  a  mastery  of  it. 

Be  it  remembered  that  young  Dixon  Scott 
started  with  no  literary  bias  or  influence  from  his 
environment.  Born  in  Liverpool — whose  motto, 
u  Ships,  Colonies,  and  Commerce,"  expresses  its 
attitude  to  letters — he  passed  through  the  local 
schools  as  one  intended  for  a  commercial  career ; 
and  at  sixteen  or  thereabouts  he  became  a  bank 
clerk,  and  laboured  among  the  money-changers  for 
nine  years.  The  routine  of  a  bank  is  surely  enough 
to  discourage  any  but  the  most  decided  aptitude  for 
the  art  of  writing.  With  Scott,  it  only  stimulated 
the  itch  to  express  himself;  and,  as  the  likeliest  means 
to  that  end,  he  established  himself  first  as  an  outside 
contributor  to  a  local  daily — the  Liverpool  Courier— 
and  later,  for  a  year  or  so,  as  a  member  of  the 
editorial  staff.  The  inside  of  a  provincial  news- 
paper office  is  not  very  satisfying  to  literary 
ambition,  but  it  served  Scott  as  an  admirable 
exercise  ground.  Anything  that  would  give  him 
an  opportunity  of  saying  what  he  wanted  to  say 
and  of  finding  out  how  to  say  it  was  meat  and 
wine  to  him.  He  wrote  leading  articles,  reviews, 
"specials,"  and  descriptive  articles  with  the  same 
irrepressible  zest  and  exuberance,  producing,  in  the 
staid  columns  of  his  medium,  something  of  the 
effect  of  a  bold  post-impressionist  canvas  in  a  gallery 
of  early  Victorian  pictures.  Naturally  he  provoked 
reactions  in  the  astonished  public  that  were  not 
altogether  flattering;  but  the  character  and  in- 
dividuality of  his  work  could  not  be  ignored.  His 
most  striking  achievement  was  a  series  of  studies  of 


8o  THE    JOYOUS    CRITIC 

the  occupants  of  the  principal  Liverpool  pulpits. 
As  in  Liverpool  the  pulpit  looms  large,  the  enter- 
prise was  not  a  little  daring.  The  ordinary 
journalist,  thus  commissioned,  would  have  regarded 
and  treated  his  "job"  as  part  of  an  irksome  routine, 
and  would  have  got  through  it  certainly  without 
enthusiasm.  But  Scott  flung  himself  into  the  task. 
With  that  rare  faculty  of  his  for  getting  at  the 
heart  of  what  he  observed — of  seeing  it  through 
and  through,  and  of  tracing  its  processes  as  from 
the  inside — he  "sat  under"  Liverpool's  most  famous 
preachers,  and  dealt  shrewdly  and  faithfully  with 
them.  At  this  time  his  power  of  observation  and 
analysis 'was  much  greater  than  his  power  of  ex- 
pression. He  had  not  learnt  economy,  but  he 
made  his  effect. 

Later  on,  I  remember,  he  undertook  to  "  do  the 
notice"  of  the  annual  Autumn  Art  Exhibition- 
pictures  being  to  him  only  second  in  interest  to 
books — and  he  went  through  that  rather  mixed 
collection,  with  all  his  guns  of  satire,  raillery,  and 
interrogation  in  action,  like  the  little  Revenge  run- 
ning down  the  line  of  the  portly  Spanish  galleons. 

All  this  time  Scott  had  been  absorbing  literature 
as  a  dry  sponge  sucks  up  moisture,  and  both  his 
interest  and  his  aptitude  attracted  attention  in  the 
direction  most  likely  to  be  serviceable  to  the  de- 
velopment of  his  talent.  Largely  through  the 
influence  of  Professor  Oliver  Elton — whose  early 
recognition  and  encouragement  of  Scott  are  indeed 
to  be  reckoned  to  him  for  righteousness — the  young 
journalist  was  awarded  (in  1907)  a  scholarship  at 
Liverpool  University,  and  thus  enabled  to  enter 
seriously  and  systematically  on  the  study  of  letters. 
He  had  already,  by  the  way,  produced  a  History 


DIXON    SCOTT  81 

of  Liverpool — a  work  which,  whatever  its  defects, 
is  a  standing  testimony  to  young  Scott's  powers  of 
presenting  and  interpreting  things  with  the  conscious 
composition  of  an  artist. 

Two  or  three  years  later  he  undertook,  apart  from 
his  appointed  academic  task  of  collecting  material 
for  a  study  of  William  Morris's  prose,  to  give  a 
course  of  University  Extension  Lectures  on  modern 
novelists,  and  he  began  to  write  reviews  and  literary 
criticism  for  the  Manchester  Guardian  and  the 
Bookman.  His  lectures  displayed  not  only  his  gifts 
as  a  critic,  but  the  remarkable  range  of  his  reading 
—reading  done,  not  as  others  use,  for  mere  diversion, 
but  with  all  his  receptive  and  critical  faculties  wide 
awake.  His  reviews  and  essays  in  criticism  written 
at  this  time  provide  the  matter  for  the  one  book, 
besides  the  History  of  Liverpool  and  his  little 
masterpiece  on  Stratford-on-Avon,  that  remains 
as  his  literary  monument. 

Scott  had  to  earn  bread  and  butter,  and  that  stern 
necessity  compelled  him  to  give  to  journalism  what 
ought  to  have  been  dedicated  to  a  higher  service  ; 
but  he  never  forgot  his  ordination  vows ;  and  if  his 
worship  had  to  be  conducted  in  a  little  corrugated- 
iron  chapel-of-ease  instead  of  in  a  cathedral,  it  was 
still  worship,  infused  with  an  ardent,  unquenchable 
fire.  Almost  suddenly  Scott  found  himself.  His 
maturity  came  to  him  swiftly,  like  the  opening  of 
the  buds  in  spring.  One  day,  it  seemed,  he  was 
struggling  to  command  his  medium.  The  next,  he 
had  acquired  mastery.  True,  -his  exuberance  re- 
mained. The  last  enemy  that  inspired  youth  shall 
put  under  its  feet  is  the  delight  in  its  own  strength ; 
and  it  is  at  worst  an  amiable  fault.  It  may  betray 
judgment  here  and  there,  but  how  it  quickens  the 


82  THE    JOYOUS    CRITIC 

perceptions  and  the  feelings !  And  with  Scott  it 
was  beginning  to  find  restraint,  for  he  had  grown 
conscious  as  an  artist  of  its  embarrassment,  and  he 
spent  much — too  much,  alas  ! — of  his  energy  in 
revising  and  re-revising  the  work  of  his  hand.  The 
papers  that  he  left  bear  pathetic  evidence  to  his 
passion  for  rewriting  what  had  already  been  so  well 
done.  But  he  had  so  much  to  say,  and  so  many 
forms  of  saying  it,  that  the  difficulty  was  not  to 
invent  but  to  select,  when  the  need  for  selection,  in 
the  interests  of  art,  became  evident  to  him. 

In  his  introduction  to  Scott's  one  book  of  col- 
lected criticisms — (Men  of  Letters :  Hodder  & 
Stoughton) — Mr  Max  Beerbohm  says  :  "  One  often 
wonders  which  of  these  two  things,  the  power  to 
feel  strongly  and  the  power  to  think  strongly,  plays 
the  greater  part  in  the  making  of  fine  criticism." 
Both  capacities  Scott  had  in  an  exceptional  degree, 
as  these  essays  testify.  He  not  only  understood  his 
author,  seized  himself  of  the  quiddity  of  him,  but 
felt  with  him.  His  receptivity  was  amazing  and 
infinite.  He  could  put  himself  in  tune  with  the 
most  diverse  spirits,  and  extract  from  them  that 
which  only  perfect  sympathy  can  discern.  Indeed, 
one  of  Scott's  chief  characteristics  was  his  whole- 
hearted admiration  for  the  achievements  of  others. 
Far  from  any  feeling  of  jealousy,  he  rejoiced  as  in 
a  personal  triumph  at  the  success  of  his  contem- 
poraries ;  and  the  present  writer  will  not  forget 
Scott's  fine  enthusiasm  over  a  new  volume  of 
verse  by  Lascelles  Abercrombie.  He  radiated  pride 
qualified  only  by  something  akin  to  reverence. 

These  collected  essays  have  some  of  the  surface 
faults  of  journalism,  as  was  inevitable.  The  titles, 
for  instance,  have  the  catchiness  of  headlines,  and  a 


DIXON    SCOTT  83 

paradoxicality  possibly  learnt  from  Mr  Chesterton. 
The  Innocence  of  Bernard  Shaw,  The  Meek- 
ness of  Mr  Rudyard  Kipling ,  The  Artlessness 
of  Mr  H.  G.  Wells,  and  The  Homeliness  of 
Browning  have  an  unmistakable  ad  captandum 
flavour.  But  they  are  but  the  stalking-horses  for 
the  critic's  real  wit.  The  test  of  all  criticism  is  the 
degree  in  which  it  enables  the  reader  to  understand 
and  appreciate  the  subject  criticized ;  and  judged  by 
that  test  these  essays  of  Scott,  written  for  news- 
papers and  periodicals  though  they  be,  must  be 
admitted  to  have  a  rare  distinction.  Here,  again, 
one  sees  his  astonishing  capacity  for  seeing  things 
from  the  inside  —  for  getting  right  into  his 
author's  mind,  so  to  say.  A  juster  and  shrewder 
appreciation  than  Scott's  of  the  idiosyncrasy  and 
method  of  Bernard  Shaw,  for  instance,  has 
never  been  written,  though  Mr  Shaw  himself 
may  complain  that  Scott  treated  what  was  in- 
tended as  an  indictment  of  civilization  as  a  mere 
specimen  of  style.  To  read  these  essays  is  not  only 
to  obtain  a  new  insight  into  literary  craftsmanship, 
but  to  have  revealed  in  authors  already  familiar  a 
new  significance.  Things  that  one  had  passed  by 
unobserved  are  discovered  by  this  critic  and  pre- 
sented with  a  vividness  which  is  almost  a  reproach. 
To  him  there  is  no  dead  stuff  anywhere.  All 
literature  is  a  bell  to  him ;  he  strikes  and  it  rings. 
Occasionally,  indeed,  Scott  sees  what  is  not  actually 
there;  but  the  only  security  against  seeing  too 
much  is  not  to  see  at  all.  In  this  book  there  are 
two  essays  at  least  that  alone  would  establish  a 
critic's  reputation — the  essay  on  Henry  James,  a 
beautiful  piece  of  appreciation  both  of  a  great 
writer  and  a  noble  spirit ;  and  the  essay  on  Morrius, 


84  THE   JOYOUS    CRITIC 

which  must  be  accepted  as  an  enduring  contribu- 
tion to  the  study  of  the  poet.  These  two  essays, 
and  perhaps  the  Chronicle  of  Mr  John  Masefield, 
present  Scott's  powers  in  their  highest  expression, 
and  in  their  austerest  form.  The  ornamentation 
is  chastened,  though  the  vivacity  remains — that 
vivacity  which  runs  through  all  his  work,  some- 
times almost  to  riot,  and  manifests  itself  in  figure 
and  trope  and  epithet  so  as  almost  to  dazzle  the 
attention. 

Through  the  less  than  ten  years  of  his  literary 
activity  Scott's  vitality  as  a  writer  grew  as  his 
physical  vitality  dwindled.  He  was  a  martyr  to  a 
particularly  distressing  form  of  dyspepsia,  and  was 
continually  under  the  doctor's  hands,  enduring  special 
diets  and  even  operations.  But  his  spirit  was  always 
buoyant,  and  his  interest  in  life  and  books — as  his 
letters  eloquently  testify — never  flagged. 

He  was  just  coming  into  his  own --he  had 
entered  the  land  of  his  promise-- when  the  war 
broke  out,  and  the  call  to  active  service  came.  He 
joined  the  Territorials,  and  obtained  a  commission 
under  Col.  J.  P.  Reynolds,  in  the  3rd  West  Lanca- 
shire Brigade,  R.F.A.  As  a  soldier  Scott,  in  spite 
of  his  poor  health,  proved  a  great  success.  He  had 
a  remarkable  aptitude  for  organization,  and  for  the 
ordering  of  detail — gifts  rare  to  the  literary  tempera- 
ment. On  October  2,  1915,  Scott  and  his  brigade 
sailed  for  Gallipoli,  and  only  three  weeks  later  he 
fell  a  victim  to  dysentery — that  scourge  of  the 
Dardanelles  Expedition  which  "  many  a  tall  fellow 
hath  destroyed  so  cowardly."  A  man  of  his  in- 
firmity, indeed,  could  hardly  have  hoped  to  escape 
where  the  most  robust  succumbed.  A  soldier's 
death  was  the  last  that  those  who  knew  Dixon 


DIXON    SCOTT  85 

Scott  would  have  predicted  for  him.  But  his  best 
epitaph  is  that  he  was  worthy  of  it ;  though  such 
a  death  adds  to  the  war's  tragedy  of  high  promise 
extinguished  and  capacity  for  splendid  service 
unfulfilled. 

R.  H. 


AN  OXFORD  CAVALIER 
ROBERT  WILLIAM  STERLING 

OXFORD,  which  is  still  Cavalier  rather 
than  Roundhead,  mobilized  the  whole  of 
her  joyous  youth  the  moment  the  call  to 
arms  was  heard  in  her  ancient  courts.  No  other 
English  city,  save  Cambridge,  has  been  so  much 
changed  by  the  war;  none  speaks  its  fell  effect 
more  eloquently  than  this  fair,  mournful  witness, 
who  feels  in  her  stricken  heart  the  sad  truth  of 
Pericles'  lamentation  over  the  loss  of  the  young 
Athenians  :  "  The  spring  has  gone  out  of  the  year." 
There  should  be  well  over  3000  undergraduates 
at  this  moment  in  residence.  "  In  June  1914," 
wrote  the  President  of  Magdalen,  my  own  much 
loved  and  dearly  remembered  college,  in  an  account 
of  Oxford's  contribution  to  the  man-power  of 
the  Empire  militant,  "  every  college  was  full  to 
overflowing.  Step  into  any  one  to-day !  If  it 
is  full  at  all,  it  is  full  of  young  soldiers.  When 
they  are  out,  it  is  empty.  The  remnant  of  under- 
graduates, the  invalid,  the  crippled,  the  neutrals, 
make  absolutely  no  show  at  all.  They  can  hardly 
be  discovered.  Colleges  which  before  the  war  con- 
tained 150  now  contain  half  a  dozen.  Emptiness, 
silence  reign  everywhere.  The  younger  teachers 
are  gone  too."  At  many  of  the  colleges  those  who 
left  for  their  military  training  in  the  first  year  of 
the  war  bound  themselves  to  return,  if  they  sur- 
vived, and  renew  the  old  traditions  for  the  genera- 
tions to  come.  When  these  survivors  of  the  loyal 
lovers  of  Oxford  and  her  traditions  are  home 
from  the  front  on  short  leave,  they  tell  you  this 


Phote  by  S.  A.  Krowt, 


ROBERT   WILLIAM    STERLING 
(LIEUTENANT,    ROYAL   SCOTS    FUSILIERS) 


ROBERT    STERLING  87 

promise   still    holds   good.      But   they   do   not  visit 
the    deserted    city,  which   was    once   all   one   great 
country  house  thronged  with  happy  young  guests. 
Short    leave    is    intended    as    a  period   of   spiritual 
refreshment   in   which   the    soldier's   valiancy  is   to 
get  a  new  edge  to  it,  as  a  sword  is  resharpened  ; 
the  brief  moments  of  release  must  not  be  devoted 
to  sorrowful  remembrance.      So  Oxford  is  avoided, 
because    her    silent    quadrangles    are    haunted  with 
the    innumerable    ghosts    of    loved-and-lost    com- 
panions, and  the  heart    of  the  living  is   strangely 
troubled    by  the    sense    of    their    unseen    presence. 
"  Let  the    dead    bury   their    dead "  is   one    of   the 
hard  texts  which  make  up  the  stern  creed  of  the 
soldier  who  must  sacrifice  so  many  tendernesses  in 
the  service  of  his  country.      What  were  the  motives 
that    compelled     the     undergraduates    at    all    our 
Universities  (not   only  Oxford   and   Cambridge)  to 
respond    so    quickly    to    the    call     to    arms  ?       An 
Oxford  soldier  poet  of  high  distinction1  has  given 
me  the  following  reasoned  catalogue  of  the  motives 
at  work  in  his  own  University : — 

1.  A  sense  that  England's  honour  was    not   only  imperilled 
but  would  no  longer  exist  if  we  made  our  Belgian  pact  a  mere 
"  scrap  of  paper." 

2.  Sympathy  with    France.     (The    French  was    one   of  the 
largest  and  most  enthusiastic  of  Oxford  Clubs.) 

3.  That  genuine  but  much  concealed  desire,  which  exists  in 
almost  every  youthful  breast,  to  suffer  for  others. 

4.  Love  of  England,  in  the  sense  expressed  in  John  Masefield's 
August  y  1914 : 

And  such  dumb  loving  of  the  Berkshire  loam 
As  breaks  the  dumb  hearts  of  the  English  kind. 

5.  The  "  Zeit-geist"  of  the  time.     Our  restlessness  was  to 

1  Mr  Robert  Nichols,  the  author  of  Ardours  and  Endurances  > 
who  served  as  an  officer  on  the  West  Front  with  other  Wykehamists, 
and  was  invalided  with  nerves  shattered  by  shell-shock. 


88        AN    OXFORD    CAVALIER 

be  offered  a  stable  occupation,  our  unsatisfiedness  an  immense 
task ;  our  egoism  a  fulfilment  in  the  personal  guidance  of 
inferiors  in  rank  and  appeasement  in  submission  to  those 
superior.  Our  wearisome  and  wearied  preoccupation  with  the 
problems  of  sex  was  to  be  abolished  in  the  hearty  companion- 
ship of  the  men  we  were  to  lead.  Our  vague  and  intense 
idealism,  so  fluctuantly  directed,  and  so  much  at  the  mercy  of 
an  ironic  sense  of  depressing  reality,  was  to  be  granted  a  high, 
immediate  realisable  purpose ;  our  realism  (intense  desire  for 
contact  with  the  actual  truth,  be  it  never  so  brutal)  was  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  terrific  external  verities  of  fatigue,  suffering, 
bodily  danger,  meanness  and  greatness  of  soul,  beloved  life  and 
staggering  death. 

6.  The  pure  spirit  of  adventure. 

7.  Curiosity. 

8.  Vague  feeling  that  "  it  was  the  thing  to  do." 

9.  Fear  of  the  world's  censure  and  State  compulsion  later  on. 

Several  of  these  motives  were  visibly  at  work 
in  the  Elizabethan  age,  when  our  right  to  be 
Englishmen  was  challenged  for  the  first  time,  and 
it  follows  that  the  vast  majority  of  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  undergraduates  who  volunteered  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war  can  be  justly  called 
New  Elizabethans — until  such  times  as  they  get 
that  name  of  their  own  to  which,  as  Professor 
W.  R.  Sorley  said  in  a  letter  to  the  chronicler, 
they  are  so  clearly  entitled. 

It  has  not  been  easy  to  choose  between  the 
thousands  of  University  undergraduates  —  young 
men  fresh  from  school  and  at  the  threshold  of  a 
career  of  inevitable  distinction — who  sacrificed  all 
that  they  were,  all  that  they  must  have  been,  to 
"  take  the  cross  "  in  defence  of  Christian  civilization. 
After  long  consideration,  so  great  was  the  number 
of  appropriate  examples,  I  have  selected  Robert 
William  Sterling,  who-  was  elected  King  Charles 
Scholar  at  Pembroke  College  (Dr  Johnson's  College, 
by  the  way)  in  1912,  and  won  the  Newdigate 


ROBERT    STERLING  89 

Prize  Poem  in  the  following  year,  when  the  subject 
was  The  Burial  of  Socrates.  In  his  gaiety  and 
gravity  commingled  he  was  a  typical  example  of 
the  Cavalier  spirit  that  animated  the  Oxford  we 
knew  before  the  war  and  shall  see  again  in  the 
coming  years  of  peace.  He  preferred  a  few  close 
friends  to  a  multitude  of  acquaintances,  having  that 
rare  genius  for  friendship  which  is  a  characteristic 
of  all  strong,  influential  personalities.  But  Oxford 
was  beginning  to  discover  him  even  before  he  had 
his  first  great  success,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  charm  of  his  fresh  and  eager  soul  would 
have  made  for  the  greater  joyousness  of  his  genera- 
tion of  undergraduates.  The  saying  of  the  late 
Bishop  Mitchinson,  then  Master  of  Pembroke,  in  a 
letter  of  sympathy  to  his  mother,  "  I  seem  to  have 
lost,  not  a  scholar,  but  a  son,"  illustrates  his  singular 
capacity  for  winning  a  place  in  the  hearts  of  those 
who  met  him  in  the  daily  round  of  doing  and 
being.  Heads  of  colleges  are  somewhat  remote  and 
inaccessible  personages ;  it  is  part  of  their  metier  to 
stand  for  a  tradition  of  bygone  courtesy,  to  set 
with  a  certain  aloofness  the  example  of  an  earlier 
dispensation  of  manners  and  customs.  Sometimes, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  venerable  Dr  Routh  of 
Magdalen,  who  was  the  last  of  the  great  school  of 
essentially  English  theologians,  they  are  the  mirrors 
of  a  century  that  has  been.  But,  with  old  and 
young  alike,  this  scholarly  young  Cavalier,  who 
seemed  to  have  ridden  to  Oxford  out  of  an  age  of 
gleaming  breastplates  and  tossing  love-locks,  won 
an  intimate  affection  without  ever  an  effort  to 
win  it.  He  was,  of  course,  a  born  poet ;  and  he 
earnestly  endeavoured  to  live  up  to  the  truth  of 
the  (amended)  classical  tag,  Poet  a  nascitur  necnon  jit. 


90        AN    OXFORD    CAVALIER 

But  it  was  his  natural  bent  to  set  the  art  of  living 
poetry  above  that  of  writing  it.  And  to-day  he 
lives  on  poetically  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew 
him  ever  so  slightly.  A  gallant,  boyish  figure  who 
has  ridden  past  into  the  unknown  in  a  great 
concourse  of  joyous  comrades — how  often  in  the 
days  gone  by  has  such  a  still-remembered  sight 
been  seen  by  the  ageless  eyes  of  the  Eternal  City 
of  Youth  he  describes  so  well  :— 

I  saw  her  bow'd  by  Time's  relentless  hand, 
Calm  as  cut  marble,  cold  and  beautiful, 
As  if  old  sighs  through  the  dim  night  of  years, 
Like  frosted  snow-flakes  on  the  silent  land, 
Had  fallen :  and  old  laughter  and  old  tears, 
Old  tenderness,  old  passion,  spent  and  dead, 
Had  moulded  her  their  stony  monument : 

While  ghostly  memory  lent 
Treasure  of  form  and  harmony  to  drape  her  head. 

Proud-stepping  statue  !   still  her  arm,  up-raised, 
Pointed  the  sceptre  skyward,  like  a  queen 
Gleaming  bright  wonder  from  the  world  amazed. 

But  this  was  the  Oxford  of  the  vanished  peace- 
time who  seemed  to  so  many  cold  and  incredulous, 
never  allowing  the  youthful  to  forget  that  they 
were  but  casual  guests  of  the  dead  in  her  ancient 
pleasances.  Oxford  was  to  Robert  Sterling  too  old 
and  majestical  to  have  much  thought  for  her  laugh- 
ing, boyish  guests  ;  the  makers  of  her  secret  life  and 
visible  scrolls  of  petrified  history  were  to  him  living 
presences  and  the  sole  subjects  of  her  regal  meditation. 
If  he  saw  her  to-day,  he  would  see  a  very  human 
creature,  a  mother  mourning  the  loss  of  ten  thousand 
sons  and  finding  her  only  solace  in  the  humblest 
war-work. 

At  Sedbergh,  that  fine  old  northern  school,  where 
every  boy  acquires  the  Roman  virtus  and  a  con- 


ROBERT   STERLING  91 

tempt  for  "  easy  options "  in  work  and  play,  he 
spent  the  last  four  years  of  his  happy  school-life. 
He  was  fond  of  the  school  games,  especially  Rugby 
football,  in  which  Sedbergh  is  supreme  among 
English  schools,  as  is  proved  by  her  long  list  of 
International  players.  But  he  did  not  greatly  excel 
in  games ;  there  exists  a  portrait  of  him  coming 
in  last  in  the  Wilson  Run,  which  is  an  even  more 
drastic  test  of  cross-country  running  than  the  famous 
"  Crick  Run  "  at  Rugby.  He  was  bound  to  finish  ; 
for,  like  all  Sedberghians,  he  lived  by  and  for  the 
first  axiom  of  Public  School  life  so  well  expressed 
in  Sir  Henry  Newbolt's  lines  of  counsel  to  the 
aspiring  youth  whom  he  straitly  enjoins : — 

To  set  the  cause  above  renown, 
To  love  the  game  beyond  the  prize. 

He  was  a  scholar  by  instinct,  and  as  one  who 
shared  a  study  with  him  bears  witness :  "  His 
interest  in  literature  alone  was  quite  enough  to 
keep  him  busy  and  happy :  like  a  true  workman 
he  put  his  whole  soul  into  what  he  did."  Classics 
were  his  chief  pursuit,  but  he  had  an  all-round 
intelligence,  and  loved  to  discuss  a  scientific  problem, 
buildirfg  up  his  argument  from  first  principles  in  a 
most  surprising  manner.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
a  bookworm.  None  felt  more  keenly  the  rapture 
of  open-air  pursuits,  of  the  blustering  wind  over 
the  Yorkshire  fells.  "  Perhaps  his  happiest  hours," 
writes  a  friend  of  his  school-days,  "  were  spent 
wandering  over  the  Sedbergh  hills,  now  leisurely 
fishing  some  lonely  beck,  now  lying  on  the  grass 
in  the  sunshine,  watching  the  clouds  drift  over 
Winder."  Winder  is  the  fell  nearest  to  the  school ; 
it  rises  some  1 1  oo  feet  above  the  playing-fields, 


92        AN    OXFORD    CAVALIER 

and  has  always  been  regarded  by  Sedberghians  as 
a  chief  source  of  the  school's  inspiration  (just  as  the 
sea  is  regarded  by  Rossallians).  A  new  boy  is 
not  considered  initiated  until  he  has  climbed  Winder. 
In  one  of  his  school  poems,  entitled  Early  Prep^ 
he  celebrates  this  notable  hill,  the  silent,  consulting 
friend  of  so  many  generations  of  hardy  climbers  :— 

O  Sedbergh  and  the  Morning 

And  the  dancing  of  the  air  ; 
See  the  crown  of  Winter  glancing 

To  the  sun  his  welcome  rare  ! — 
And  we  valley-folk  are  scorning 

All  the  labour  and  the  care : 
For  heart  and  feet  are  dancing 

With  the  dancing  of  the  air. 

He  will  always  be  remembered  as  the  laurea 
of  Sedbergh,  "  stern  nurse  of  men,"  for  the  genius 
loci  lives  abundantly  in  his  poems  on  the  hill-side, 
brooklets  and  the  airy  revelry  of  the  snow-flakes 
over  winter's  ghostly  brow  : — 

Embodied  smiles  from  the  white  sky  falling, 

and  on  the  cricket  field  when  the  game  is  over  and 
the  umpire  (conscience  in  a  white  garment)  has 
pocketed  the  bails  and 

The  mystic  music  of  the  scented  gale 

Sings  the  dead  day :  and  all  the  objects  fade, 

Making  their  separate  hues  one  blended  whole  !   .   .   . 

Chapel  and  school  and  field — whatever  made 

Glorious  the  day — richly  together  roll 

In  single  wealth  :  Sedbergh  reveals  her  soul. 

And,  above  all,  in  his  glad  song  of  the  delights  of  a 
plunge  in  the  River  Lune  when  the  sluggards  are  tak- 
ing what  somebody  once  called  their  ugliness  sleep  :— 

When  the  messenger  sunbeam  over  your  bed 

Silently  creeps  in  the  morn  ; 
And  the  dew-drops  glitter  on  flower  and  tree, 

Like  the  tears  of  hope  new-born  •, 


ROBERT   STERLING  93 

When  the  clouds  race  by  in  the  painted  sky 

And  the  wind  has  a  merry  tune  : 
Ah  !   then  for  the  joy  of  an  early  dip 

In  the  glorious  pools  of  Lune. 

Because  of  these  poems,  inspired  by  the  narrow,  but 
intense,  patriotism  of  a  great  school  (see  Douglas 
Gillespie's  life  for  yet  another  example  of  that  root 
of  the  love  of  country),  Robert  Sterling  will  also 
live  on  the  lips  of  boyhood,  which  is  a  joyous 
form,  surely,  of  mundane  immortality. 

Of  his  Oxford  career  almost  enough  has  already 
been  said.  His  scholarship  ripened  there,  and  he 
worked  hard  at  the  perfecting  of  his  technique. 
That  is  why  his  Oxford  poems  have  lost  something 
of  the  breezy  freshness  and  spontaneity  of  the 
verse  he  wrote  at  Sedbergh.  A  time  comes  to 
all  young  poets  when  the  dynamics  of  expression 
insist  on  being  seriously  studied,  and  their  ex- 
periments in  rhyme  and  rhythm  seem  prosody 
rather  than  poetry.  In  a  most  interesting  fragment 
entitled  Maran  we  have  the  results  of  a  valiant 
attempt  to  recover  for  the  English  tongue  a  lost 
heritage — the  forgotten  legacy  of  the  Saxon  epic 
poets  who  used  stress  and  alliteration  with  such  an 
impressive  effect.  In  this  curious  form  the  number  of 
unaccentuated  syllables  does  not  matter ;  accentuated 
syllables  must  be  four  and  three  alternately  and 
are  to  be  intoned  ;  only  one  accentuated  syllable 
in  each  line  is  unalliterative.  The  scheme  is  seen 
to  advantage  in  the  following  stanza : — 

The  *i/ind  was  iu 'ailing  over  the  la'nd  w'ildly 

S'ong-/ighing,  and  the  Mo'on 
^'anguishing,  a  /o've-/o'rn  ma'iden 

Pa'le-/>e'ering  from  a  shr'oud. 

His  Neivdigate  was  not  one  of  the  very  few 
real  poems  which  have  won  the  famous  prize, 


94        AN    OXFORD    CAVALIER 

nor  does  it  contain  a  memorable  line  such  as 
that  which  occurs  in  Dean  Burgon's  oft-quoted 
description  of  Petra  : — 

A  rose-red  city  half  as  old  as  Time. 

But  it  is  much  more  than  the  average  pri 
poet's  careful  exercise  in  scholarly  versification,  in 
which  convention  has  everything  its  own  way. 
The  subject  was  the  story  told  by  Thucydides  of 
Spartan  courtesy  in  permitting  the  burial  of  Sophocles 
among  his  ancestral  olives  : — 

And  he  was  laid  in  the  tomb  of  his  fathers,  that  is  situated 
in  front  of  the  wall,  on  the  road  leading  past  Decelea.  .  .  . 
Now  Decelea  had  been  taken  from  the  Athenians  and  fortified 
against  them  by  the  Lacedaemonians,  to  whose  general,  Lysander, 
the  god  Dionysus  appeared  in  a  dream,  bidding  him  give  leave  for 
the  man  to  be  buried  in  that  tomb.  When  Lysander  made  light 
of  it,  the  god  appeared  a  second  time  with  the  same  behest. 
Then  Lysander  inquired  from  deserters  who  the  dead  man  was  j 
and  learning  that  it  was  Sophocles,  sent  a  herald  with  permission 
for  the  burial. 

The  poet's   grandson  is   made  to  tell   the  story  of 

the    journey    by    night,    in     the    darkest    hour  of 

Athens'  fortunes,  and  this  is  his  final  word  of 
farewell  :— 

Ah  !     Master,  when  the  blast  uproots  a  tree, 

Its  form  lies  bedded — but  a  god  beneath 
Treasures  its  leaves  and  perished  fragrancy, 

To  pierce  anew  the  pregnant  soul  of  death  : 
So  from  thy  poetry,  thy  spirit-tomb, 

Shall  burgeon  wreaith  of  tears  and  tenderness 
And  beauty,  when  forgotten  is  this  pit 

And  drain'd  is  Athens'  doom — 
Come,  leave  his  body,  friends,  to  Earth's  caress. — 

Oh,  lightly,  lightly,  Earth,  encompass  it ! 

His  friends  greatly  rejoiced  at  this  victory,  and 
he  wore  his  academic  laurel  without  ostentation, 


ROBERT    STERLING  95 

insisting  that  he  had  only  just  entered  on  his 
apprenticeship  to  poetry.  His  genius  for  friend- 
ship now  found  fuller  play.  "  He  could  convey," 
writes  one  of  his  college  friends,  "  a  rare  warmth 
of  welcome  in  one  exclamatory  word,  whilst  in 
his  mouth  the  use  of  a  Christian  name  at  some 
surprise  meeting  was  a  thing  not  lightly  forgotten." 
Had  he  lived,  he  must  have  become  one  of  those 
quiet,  abiding  influences,  responsive  to  simple  joys 
and  sorrows  and  so  never  growing  old,  which 
have  made  Oxford,  with  all  its  faults  and  failings, 
a  place  where  all  can  learn  the  highest  art  of 
living. 

Early  in  August  1914  he  applied  for  and  re- 
ceived a  commission  in  the  Royal  Scots  Fusiliers. 
In  February  of  the  following  year  he  was  sent  to 
France.  "  It  was  a  great  relief,"  he  wrote  at  the 
time,  "  to  get  out  here  after  kicking  my  heels  toy- 
soldiering  at  home."  He  had  already  shown  that 
a  man  of  action,  a  fine  soldier,  could  be  evolved 
from  the  gentle  and  joyous  scholar.  He  gave 
the  whole  of  himself  to  soldiering ;  his  men,  to 
whom  he  was  devoted,  knew  from  the  first  that 
he  had  the  capacity  for  leadership.  But  he  still 
sought  for  links  with  the  kindly  cosmos  on  which, 
as  fate  would  have  it,  he  had  turned  his  back  for 
ever.  "  I've  been  longing  for  some  link  with  the 
normal  universe  detached  from  the  storm.  It's 
funny  how  trivial  incidents  sometimes  are  seized  as 
symbols  by  the  memory,  but  I  did  find  such  a 
link  about  three  weeks  ago.  We  were  in  trenches 
in  woody  country  (just  S.E.  of  Ypres).  The 
Germans  were  about  eighty  yards  away,  and 
between  the  trenches  lay  pitiful  heaps  of  dead 
friends  and  foes.  Such  trees  as  were  left  standing 


96        AN    OXFORD    CAVALIER 

were    little    more    than    stumps,    both    behind    our 
lines  and  the  enemy's.      The  enemy  had  just  been 
shelling  our  reserve  trenches,  and  a   Belgian  battery 
behind   us  had   been    replying,   when    there   fell  a 
few    minutes'    silence ;     and  I,    still   crouching    ex- 
pectantly  in    the    trench,   suddenly  saw   a   pair  of 
thrushes   building  a  nest   in  a  '  bare,  ruin'd  choir ' 
of  a  tree,  only  about   five   yards  behind  our  line. 
At   the   same  time   a    lark    began    to   sing   in    the 
sky  above  the  German  trenches.     It  seemed  almost 
incredible  at  the  time,  but  now,  whenever  I  think 
of   those    nest-builders    and   that   all  but  'sightless 
song,'  they  seem  to   represent  in  some  degree  the 
very    essence    of    the    Normal    and    Unchangeable 
Universe  carrying  on  unhindered  and  careless  amid 
the  corpses  and    the    bullets    and     the    madness." 
This  was  written  within  a  week  of  his  death.     In 
another  letter  he  wrote :   "  I  think  I  should  go  mad, 
if  I   didn't  still   cherish   some   faith   in   the   justice 
of  things,  and  a   vague    but    confident  belief  that 
death  cannot  end  great  friendships."     He  had  no 
time,  in  that  terrible  year  when  the  British  Army 
was  outnumbered  and  outgunned  and  the  German 
observation  balloons,  evil  things  full  of  eyes,  hung 
unmolested   above    our    trenches,    and    the    Allies' 
left  flank  was  all  but  turned,  to  write  verse.     All 
his   thought   and   energy   was  spent   in  an  infinite 
carefulness  for  his  men,  in  ceaseless  vigilance  against 
the  subtle  inventions  of  the  Hun.     The  cold  hatred, 
which  inspired  the  scientific  savagery  of  the  enemy, 
seemed    to  him    a    wrong    against    human    nature. 
But  he  knew,  as  from  the  first  all  British  soldiers* 
have  known,  that  the  moral  of  a  victorious  nation 
is  maintained  with  such  unworldly  passion,  and  this 
chivalrous  certainty — a   truth    that  Time   has  con- 


ROBERT  STERLING  97 

firmed — is  expressed  in  one   of  two  quatrains    he 
wrote  in  the  trenches  :— 

Ah  !     Hate  like  this  would  freeze  our  human  tears, 

And  stab  the  morning  star  : 
Not  it,  not  it  commands  and  mourns  and  bears 

The  storm  and  bitter  glory  of  red  war. 

His    other   trench   poem    was    a    valedictory    to    a 
dear  friend  killed  in  action  :— 

O  brother,  I  have  sung  no  dirge  for  thee  : 

Nor  for  all  time  to  come 

Can  song  reveal  my  grief's  infinity  : 

The  menace  of  thy  silence  makes  me  dumb. 

These  quatrains  show  that  he  had  found  himself 
as  a  soldier  poet,  a  worker  in  the  stubborn  medium 
of  stern  reality.  He  fell  in  action,  after  holding 
his  trench  valiantly  through  many  hours  of  bitter 
fighting,  on  St  George's  Day,  1915,  when  in  the 
twenty-second  year  of  his  age.  His  commanding 
officer  and  his  men  deeply  deplored  his  loss,  seeing 
in  him  a  lovely  and  terrible  type  of  the  chivalrous 
British  soldier  who  remains  undefeated  even  in 
death. 


LOST  LEADERS 

COLWYN  AND  ROLAND  PHILIPPS 

THE  death  in  the  field — for  them  a  field  of 
glory  indeed — of  the  two  brilliant  and 
beloved  sons  of  Lord  St  Davids  was  noth- 
ing less  than  a  national  disaster.  Their  personalities 
differed  in  a  marked  degree,  but  they  were  alike  in 
this — each  looked  upon  his  life  as  a  precious  pos- 
session to  be  used  in  the  service  of  his  fellow-men 
and  to  the  greater  glory  of  God.  They  had  the 
tenderest  affection  for  their  parents,  and  it  is  easily 
seen  that  the  well-spring  of  cither's  aspirations  and 
inspirations  was  to  be  found  in  the  happy  family 
life  at  the  Welsh  home  of  which  the  elder  brother 
sings  : — 

God  gave  all  men  all  earth  to  love, 

But  since  our  hearts  are  small, 
He  has  ordained  one  place  should  prove 
Beloved  over  all. 

The  lot  has  fallen  to  me 

At  a  fair  place,  at  a  fair  place, 

At  Lydstep  by  the  sea. 

Each  of  them  was  trusted  at  sight  by  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men,  for  honour  and  honesty 
grew  in  both  as  manifestly  as  the  gentle  wild 
flowers  appear  in  this  ancient  garden-land  of  ours. 
Each  had  innumerable  friends  and  never  an  enemy ; 
for  a  true  humility  made  them  both  so  truly  charit- 
able that  courtesy  seemed  ever  the  better  part  of 
charity  in  all  their  works  and  words.  Snobbishness 
was  to  them  the  deadliest  of  sins,  and  they  loathed 
the  religious,  political  and  social  shams  of  the 
indolent  and  luxurious  age  they  were  born  into— 
that  dishonest  and  dishonourable  age  which  now  lies 


THE  HON.  COLWYN  PHILIPPS 
(CAPTAIN,  ROYAL  HORSE  GUARDS) 

From  a  portrait  by  Frank  Salisbury 


COLWYN  ^   ROLAND   PHILIPPS    99 

so  far  behind  us  as  to  seem  only  a  sick  and  mean- 
ingless dream.  Had  they  lived  they  must  have 
achieved  leadership,  or  had  it  thrust  upon  them ;  for 
all  men  saw  in  them  a  single-hearted  devotion  to 
the  work  they  had  chosen  or  which  had  chosen 
them.  The  elder  brother  must  have  become  a 
famous  soldier  with  that  rare  faculty  of  statesman- 
ship (seen  in  such  leaders  as  Lord  Roberts)  which  is 
bora  of  the  soldier's  sense  of  the  stem  realities  of 
national  life.  The  younger,  already  distinguished 
as  an  orator  among  a  people  with  a  racial  genius  for 
oratory,  would  have  made  his  mark  in  politics  and 
proved  that  it  can  be  made  something  better  than 
the  "great  game91  of  self-seeking  demagogues. 
:h  made  the  last  great  sacrifice  of  all  that  he  was 
and  all  that  he  might  have  been  in  the  spirit  of  a 
Christian  hero,  and  the  proud  lament  for  the  fallen 
chieftains  of  Israel  is  theirs  also:  "They  were 
lovely  and  pleasant  in  their  fives*  and  in  their  death 
thev  were  not  divided." 


Colwyn  Phifipps  was  a  born  soldier;  he  never 
had  the  slightest  doubt  (nor  had  his  friends)  as  to  Us 
true  vocation  from  the  *»mmmt  he 
still  at  Elton,  to  enter  the  Army.  He 
sportsman  with  a  great  love  for 
horses  and  dogs,  and  a  profound  insight  into  die 
vinous  crixi ""JLC^wr"?  cr  "nr^i  n_~  _  ~t  ~^" ~ ~  "*  i  ~ 
" ;-..:::  — 


:::    ••••_•:.    :. 


ioo  LOST    LEADERS 

and  forms  the  habit  of  making  quick  decisions. 
You  have  only  to  look  into  the  personal  history  of 
Sir  Douglas  Haig  and  other  famous  commanders, 
past  and  present,  to  admit  the  truth  of  Sir  Evelyn 
Wood's  contention  that  the  hunting-field  is  a  fine 
school  of  military  leadership.  Colwyn  Philipps  was 
a  keen  and  fearless  horseman,  who  could  take  a 
toss  as  well  as  any  man.  He  had  good  hands  and 
a  fine  judgment  of  pace — and  it  is  not  surprising  to 
learn  that  he  won  regimental  steeplechases  and 
point-to-point  races  in  his  native  Pembrokeshire. 
But  he  knew  that  the  mastery  of  modern  warfare, 
a  science  as  well  as  an  art,  requires  a  highly-trained 
intelligence  in  addition  to  that  open-air  common 
sense  which  every  good  sportsman  possesses.  He 
read  widely  and  wisely  in  order  to  increase  his 
knowledge  of  men  and  affairs ;  he  was  a  keen 
student  of  the  treatises  bearing  on  his  profession ; 
he  taught  himself  to  think  accurately  and  write 
clearly,  which  every  young  officer  should  learn  to 
do,  seeing  that  an  order  that  is  ill  thought  out  or 
obscurely  worded  is  often  the  cause  of  unnecessary 
loss  of  life.  He  took  the  utmost  pains  to  master 
the  minutest  details  of  a  regimental  officer's  work, 
and  had  a  perfect  understanding  of  every  branch 
of  his  business.  Major  Lord  Tweedmouth,  writing 
to  his  father  after  his  death  in  the  second  battle  of 
Ypres,  said  that  "  he  was  extraordinarily  keen  and 
energetic  and  a  first-class  officer."  Above  all  he 
made  it  his  chief  ambition  to  know  his  men  indi- 
vidually, to  win  and  keep  their  confidence,  and  to 
consider  their  comfort  and  well-being  in  every 
possible  way.  He  knew  the  value  of  cheerfulness 
as  a  military  asset,  and  had  the  capacity  of  unceasing 
watchfulness — a  letter  from  a  trooper  of  the  Royal 


1'nvto  by  Eiliott  and  Fry 


THE    HON.    ROLAND   PHILIPl'S 

(CAPTAIN,  ROYAL  FUSILIERS,  M.C.) 


COLWYN  &  ROLAND  PHILIPPS  101 

Horse  Guards,  describing  his  conduct  in  the  grey 
dawning  of  his  last  day  of  life,  says :  "  He  was,  as 
usual,  in  the  best  spirits,  and  always  on  the  look- 
out." The  Old  Army  has  died  that  England  might 
live,  and  few  indeed  of  his  men  survive.  But  those 
few  will  always  remember  him  as  the  kindly  and 
considerate  friend  of  all  his  comrades,  in  whose 
judgment  it  was  easy  to  have  the  utmost  confidence— 
so  that  he  was  not  obliged  to  cultivate  a  manner 
of  aloofness  to  keep  his  authority. 

His  letters  from  the  Front,  written  from 
November  1914  to  April  1915,  a  period  of  forlorn 
hopes,  give  as  vivid  and  delightful  a  picture  of  this 
young  soldier's  various  personality  as  one  could  wish 
to  possess.  Most  of  them  were  written  to  his 
mother,  whom  he  adored,  and  I  know  of  nothing 
more  moving  than  the  "  character  "  he  gave  her  in 
the  last  letter  he  ever  wrote  to  her : — 

This  is  not  a  letter,  it's  a  testimonial.  I  give  you  a  char- 
acter of  twenty-six  years.  You  have  never  advised  me  to  do 
anything  because  it  seemed  wise  unless  it  was  the  highest  right. 
Single-minded  you  have  chosen  love  and  honour  as  the  "things 
that  are  more  excellent,"  and  you  have  not  failed.  .  .  .  You  are 
to  me  the  dearest  friend,  the  perfect  companion,  the  shining 
example,  and  the  proof  that  honour  and  love  are  above  all 
things  and  are  possible  of  attainment. 

This  is  a  chord,  a  beautiful  star  of  appealing 
music  in  a  proud  silence  of  grief  with  honour,  which 
is  often  struck  in  the  last  letters  of  the  innumerable 
dead.  It  is  well  we  should  remember  these  love- 
letters  to  mothers  enskied  and  ensainted,  for  they 
show  that  the  mood  of  the  British  soldier — high 
courage  and  infinite  tenderness  commingled — is  the 
creation  of  British  womanhood.  It  is  to  the 
mothers  of  the  fallen,  more  than  to  any  others,  that 
we  shall  owe  the  victorious  renewal  of  our  ancient 


102 


LOST    LEADERS 


strength  and  a  right  use  of  victory  in  the  days  t< 
come. 

Hitherto  it  has  been  generally  supposed  that  the 
Briton  is  somewhat  lacking  even  in  affectionate 
regard  for  his  mother.  The  Frenchman,  whose 
passionate  tenderness  is  revealed  whenever  he  utters 
the  words  "ma  mere,"  has  seen  in  this  alleged 
want  of  natural  feeling  a  strong  proof  of  the  cold- 
ness of  our  national  character.  It  is  a  sad  libel- 
yet  some  apologists  of  English  birth  have  accepted 
it  as  an  unpleasing  truth,  an  unhappy  result  of  the 
custom  of  packing  boys  off  to  school  at  a  very 
early  age.  Moreover,  such  sayings  as, 

My  son  is  my  son  till  he  marries  a  wife, 

My  daughter's  my  daughter  till  the  end  of  her  life, 

can  be  quoted  in  confirmation  of  the  belief  that 
the  most  beautiful  tie  of  human  intimacy  is  not 
as  strong  and  enduring  in  this  island  as  in  other 
countries.  The  truth,  as  I  see  and  have  felt  it  in 
the  past,  is  that  a  misunderstanding  has  arisen  out  of 
our  national  predilection  for  avoiding  any  demon- 
strative display  of  emotion — even,  if  possible,  in  the 
extremest  ecstasies  of  life,  when  all  the  barriers  are 
down  between  spirit  and  spirit.  The  curious  thing, 
which  no  foreigner — not  even  an  American — can 
ever  understand,  is  that  this  convention  of  cold- 
ness is  condoned  by  both  sexes  ;  so  that  even  the 
at-one-ment  of  lovers  losing  themselves  in  one 
another  may  be  a  miracle  of  the  mingling  of 
fire  and  snow — as  though  Etna  in  eruption  should 
yet  keep  its  covering  of  icy,  virginal  whiteness. 
Our  sons  and  mothers  alike  accept  this  convention, 
most  of  all  in  war-time;  the  "with  it  or  on  it"  of 
the  Spartan  mother,  giving  her  son  his  shining  shield, 


COLWYN  &  ROLAND  PHILIPPS  103 

has  been  paralleled  in  many  eternal  partings  since  the 
war  began.  But  let  me  give  an  everyday  example 
which  bears  more  immediately  on  the  mother.  A  boy 
at  school,  now  serving  in  France,  wrote  to  his  sister, 
when  expecting  a  visit  from  his  parents  :  "  Please  ask 
mother,"  he  said  in  a  postscript,  "not  to  pull  my 
hair  and  call  me  '  dearest '  when  the  men  are 
about.  They  used  to  call  a  man  here  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy — Fauntie  for  short.  Best  love  to  mother. 
I  do  hope  she  will  come  down."  You  can't  get 
behind  that.  The  plain  truth  is  that  Britons  love 
their  mothers  as  dearly  as  British  mothers  deserve 
to  be  loved  ;  and  if  a  certain  exotic  touch  of  passion, 
which  is  found  in  the  Frenchman's  more  open  and 
yet  more  secret  emotion,  be  lacking  in  this  mutual 
loving,  let  us  remember  that  the  difference — -even 
if  Michelet's  strange  suggestion  be  rejected — is 
perhaps  in  our  favour. 

In  others  of  these  brief  characters  it  is  shown  how 
and  why  a  perfect  intimacy  between  mother  and 
son  has  irradiated  a  character  and  a  career.  Out 
of  such  an  intimacy,  all  the  daily  giving  and 
taking,  there  grows  a  compassionate  tenderness  for 
the  womanhood  of  all  women ;  so  that  the  young 
men  blest  with  it  can  never  be  thought  of  as 
giving  less  than  they  take  from  the  other  half  of 
human  creation,  and  are  always  able  to  live  up 
to  the  quaint,  wise  doctrine  of  the  old  rhyme : — 

Treat  the  woman  tenderly,  tenderly, 

Out  of  a  crooked  rib  God  made  her  slenderly,  slenderly. 

Straight  and  strong  He  did  not  make  her, 

Let  love  be  kind,  or  else  ye'll  break  her. 

Could  the  unreckoning  ardour  of  youth  be  thus 
directed,  then  the  greatest  of  all  social  reforms 
would  be  accomplished ;  for  it  is  out  of  the  still 


LOST    LEADERS 

powerful  dogma  of  the  inferiority  of  woman's  con- 
tribution to  the  sources  of  national  greatness  that 
most  of  the  evils  and  indignities  of  human  life 
are  directly  or  indirectly  derived.  If  the  war  had 
taught  us  nothing  else,  it  would  have  been  well 
worth  while ! 

All  manner  of  topics  are  touched  on  in  these 
valiant  letters,  but  the  soldier  is  predominant.  He 
finds  the  French  people  perfectly  charming,  but  is 
horrified  at  the  way  they  have  been  treated  by 
some  of  their  English  guests.  A  French  mistress 
of  the  house,  discovered  in  a  wash-house  surrounded 
by  a  dozen  other  women  and  girls,  refuses  at  first 
to  lend  him  a  lantern.  She  had  lent  one  the  day 
before  to  some  English  and  they  had  not  returned 
it.  He  answered  that  the  English  were  lending 
their  lives  and  a  lantern  was  a ,  small  exchange. 
"  This  somewhat  bombastic  speech  "  (a  characteristic 
touch !)  "  had  the  amazing  effect  of  making  the 
whole  room  cheer,  and  Madame,  blushing  hotly, 
insisted  on  giving  me  two  lanterns,  and  carrying 
them  herself."  Part  of  a  letter  written  a  little 
later  to  an  officer  friend  shall  be  quoted  to  show 
that  he  had  the  true  soldier's  keen  sense  of  the 
significance  of  details  : — 

Now  about  tips. — Dig,  never  mind  if  the  men  are  tired, 
always  dig.  Make  trenches  as  narrow  as  possible,  with  no 
parapet  if  possible ;  dig  them  in  groups  of  eight  or  ten  men, 
and  join  up  later ;  leave  large  traverses.  Once  you  have  got 
your  deep  narrow  trench  you  can  widen  out  the  bottom,  but 
don't  hollow  out  too  much  as  a  Maria  shakes  the  ground  for 
a  hundred  yards  and  will  make  the  whole  thing  fall  in.  Don't 
allow  any  movement  or  heads  to  show,  or  any  digging  or 
going  to  the  rear  in  the  daytime.  All  that  can  be  done  at 
night  or  in  the  mists  of  morning  that  are  heavy  and  last  till 
8  or  9  a.m.  Always  carry  wire  and  always  put  wire  forty 
yards  in  front  of  the  trench,  not  more.  One  trip-wire  will 


COLWYN  &  ROLAND  PHILIPPS  105 

do  if  you  have  no  time  for  more.  The  Germans  often  rush 
at  night,  and  the  knowledge  of  wire  gives  the  men  confidence. 
Don't  shoot  unless  you  have  a  first-rate  target,  and  don't  ever 
shoot  from  the  trenches  at  aeroplanes, — remember  that  the 
whole  thing  is  concealment,  and  then  again  concealment.  Never 
give  the  order  "  fire "  without  stating  the  number  of  rounds, 
as  otherwise  you  will  never  stop  them  again ;  you  can't  be 
too  strict  about  this  in  training. 

In  other  letters  of  advice,  based  on  personal 
experience,  he  emphasizes  the  folly  of  anything  in  the 
nature  of  playing  to  the  gallery.  "  The  first  thing  we 
learn  here  is  to  forget  about  4  Glory.'  .  .  .  Another 
thing  we  learn  is  to  avoid  'brave  men.'  The  ass 
who  '  does  not  mind  bullets '  walks  about  and  only 
draws  fire  that  knocks  over  better  men  than  himself." 
Here  is  another  consignment  of  good  counsel  :— 

Always  carry  lots  of  ammunition  to  the  trenches :  you 
may  not  want  it  for  months,  .but  when  you  do  you  will  find 
200  rounds  don't  go  far.  You  will  usually  take  over  trenches 
at  night ;  don't,  in  the  confusion,  forget  to  ask  the  chap  you 
relieve — 

1.  Where  the  supporting  trench  is. 

2.  Exactly  who  is  on  your  flanks,  and  where. 

3.  Where  the  dressing-station  is. 

4.  If  any  water  is  to  be  had,  and  where. 

5.  If  you  have  wire  in  front  of  you ;  and  if  you  have  not, 

you  must  have  half  of  the  men  standing  to  arms  all 
night. 

If  you  hear  tremendous  fusilades  going  on  it  will  probably 
be  yeomen  or  French :  don't  stand  to  arms  without  real  need. 
A  good  regiment  will  be  in  the  trenches  for  days  and  hardly 
fire  a  shot,  a  bad  one  will  have  bursts  of  rapid  once  an  hour. 
Well,  old  boy,  I  wish  you  every  kind  of  luck.  Another  hint. — 
Do  not,  however  great  the  temptation,  allow  straw  in  the  firing 
trenches  (have  it  in  the  supports,  of  course),  nothing  gives  the 
show  away  so.  The  other  day  I  found  my  trench  lined  with 
nice  warm  straw  pellets.  We  were  shelled  like  hell,  but  in  the 
night  I  had  all  the  straw  carried  out  and  put  in  a  line  200  yards 
behind  us.  They  shelled  this  line  of  straw  all  day,  and  never 
touched  us." 


io6  LOST    LEADERS 

When  treatises  on  the  whole  art  of  trench  war- 
fare come  to  be  written,  the  authors  will  do  well 
to  consult  these  soldierly  messages. 

He  takes  great  delight  in  the  quaint  sayings 
of  his  men.  For  example,  that  of  a  weary  person, 
on  whose  face  he  had  stepped  while  crawling  to 
his  sleeping  place  in  a  lean-to  behind  a  barn. 
A  weary  voice  muttered :  "  This  is  a  blooming  fine 
game,  played  slow."  And  after  a  very  long  march 
a  trooper  was  heard  saying  to  his  very  rough  horse : 
"  You're  no  blooming  Rolls-Royce,  I  give  you  my 
word."  He  accepts  somebody's  definition  of  war 
as  utter  boredom  for  many  months,  interspersed 
with  moments  of  acute  terror — "  the  boredom  is 
a  fact,"  he  adds.  When  there  was  a  piece  of  much- 
shelled  ground  to  be  crossed  and  his  men's  faces 
looked  rather  long,  he  "  restored  confidence,"  in  the 
absence  of  cigarettes,  by  taking  a  ration  biscuit 
in  one  hand  and  a  lump  of  cheese  in  the  other,  and 
eating  them  in  alternate  mouthfuls.  "  We  escaped 
without  a  shell,  but  I  nearly  choked  myself." 
Here,  to  end  this  little  catalogue  of  humorous 
sayings  and  doings,  is  an  address  he  overheard 
given  to  three  recruits  by  an  N.C.O.  who  had  been 
told  to  increase  their  esprit  de  corps  by  anecdotes 
and  references : — 

'Ave  you  ever  heard  tell  o'  the  Black  Prince  ?  No  ? — 
Well,  you  are  ignorant  blighters  !  'E  was  a  cove  what  rode 
about  in  armour,  'eavy  cavalry  'e  was,  and  'e  licked  the  French. 
Well,  a  pal  o'  'is  was  St  George  wat  'as  'is  birthday  to-morrow  : 
'e's  the  cove  as  I  want  to  tell  you  about.  Never  'card  tell  of 
'im  ?  Why,  look  at  the  back  of  'arf  a  quid.  There  you  see 
'im  sitting  on  a  nanimale  a-fighting  of  a  dragon.  You  will  note 
as  'is  thigh  is  in  the  c'rect  position — but  'is  toe  is  too  depressed 
— don't  forget  as  the  sole  of  the  foot  is  to  be  kept  parallel  to 
the  ground — however,  'e  was  fighting  of  a  dragon,  which 
accounts  for  it.  Well,  this  'ere  St  George  is  the  patron  Saint  of 


COLWYN  &  ROLAND  PHILIPPS  107 

cavalry,  and  don't  yer  forget  it.  What's  that  ?  What  is  a 
patron  saint  ?  Now  none  of  your  back  answers  'ere,  my  lad, 
or  you  and  me  will  fall  out.  Carry  on  ! 

Everybody  reads  in  the  long  days  of  nothing  to 
do  at  the  Front,  and  he  finds  time  for  a  little 
literary  criticism. 

For  example,  he  wishes  to  commend  Browning 
"  as  the  perfect  poet  for  lovers — he  does  not  write 
about  love  as  if  it  was  a  fever  of  the  youthful, 
which  most  people  do,  and  he  delights  in  the  cosy 
prettinesses  of  his  lady  without  being  fulsome  or 
sticky."  A  most  just  piece  of  criticism.  A  great 
lover  of  children,  he  had  a  box  of  toys  sent  out 
for  some  French  kiddies.  The  toys  were  a  great 
success,  especially  the  toy  elephant,  a  creature 
which  none  of  them  had  seen  before,  and  innumer- 
able inquiries  as  to  its  size,  habits,  etc.,  taxed  his 
French  vocabulary  severely.  His  last  letter  but 
one  quotes  a  Canadian's  criticism  of  his  officers : 
"  Our  chaps  are  all  right,  our  rifle  is  a  good  one, 
the  grub  is  first-rate,  and  our  officers — oh,  well, 
we  just  take  them  along  as  mascots."  Also  he 
says  that  the  latest  joke  is  to  call  the  cavalry  M.P.'s, 
because  they  sit  and  do  nothing. 

The  end  came  all  too  soon.  He  fell  in  the 
counter-attack  at  the  second  battle  of  Ypres  by 
two  cavalry  brigades  which  succeeded  in  spite  of 
very  heavy  shrapnel  and  rifle  fire  in  regaining  the 
original  line  of  trenches  (see  Sir  John  French's 
despatch  published  July  12,  1915).  Brother  officers 
give  a  glorious  picture  of  his  gallant  death.  He 
gave  view-halloos  as  the  advance  was  made ;  a 
little  later  he  was  seen  on  his  Knees,  facing  those 
following  after  and  waving  his  cap  and  shouting 
"  Come  on,  boys ! "  He  was  the  first  man  into 


io8  LOST    LEADERS 

the  recovered  trenches,  and  he  killed  five  Germans 
before  being  shot  at  close  quarters  and  instantly 
killed.  Thus  died  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  a  type 
and  examplar  of  undying  chivalry. 

The  poet  remains ;  until  you  know  him  you 
have  not  sounded  the  depths  of  this  valiant  and 
compassionate  heart.  A  little  anthology  of  his  easy, 
crystal-clear  verse  (which  always  means  what  it 
says  and  says  what  it  means),  will  help  you  to 
understand  the  deep  earnestness  which  was  the  seed- 
plot  of  all  his  happy  virtues.  In  An  Apprecia- 
tion he  pays  homage  to  Mr  Lloyd  George,  whom 
he  had  accepted  as  his  leader  on  the  path  of  social 
reform : — 

An  absolute  silence  greeted  your  birth, 

Latest  and  greatest  of  children  of  earth  ; 
No  shouting  or  routing,  no  rockets  on  high, 

For  you,  the  long-looked  for,  the  star  in  the  sky. 

The  masses  make  much  of  a  Mafeking  holiday, 

On  Ladysmith  night  all  the  streets  will  be  dressed, 

On  the  fifth  of  November  they  still  make  a  jolly  day, 
And  you  they  will  greet  as  a  street-corner  jest. 

You,  who  are  a  plank  to  bridge  o'er  the  disparity, 
The  deep  yawning  gulf  'twixt  the  rich  and  the  poor ; 

You,  that  mean  health  as  a  right,  not  a  charity- 
Well,  you  know  stamp-licking  is  such  a  bore. 

Pro  is  an  amiable  rebuke  to  the  critic  whose 
whole  creed  is  expressed  in  Lord  Melbourne's 
Why  not  let  it  alone  ? — 

The  Suffragettes  put  up  your  back, 

Socialists  you  can't  abide, 
And  likewise  the  Insurance  Act, 

And  I  don't  know  what  beside. 
Money-making  in  the  City 

Seems  to  you  both  coarse  and  wrong, 
And  you  think  it  is  a  pity 

That  I  waste  my  time  in  song. 


COLWYN  &  ROLAND  PHILIPPS  109 

All  we  do  before  we  die,  Friend, 

Is,  at  best,  so  very  scanty  j 
Don't  you  think  you  might  try,  Friend, 

To  be  Pro — instead  of  Anti  ? 

An  Outsider  is  the  soverain  antidote  to  the 
national  habit,  which  is  seen  in  all  classes,  of 
regarding  form  as  even  more  important  than 
character :- — 

You  judge  him  that  he  does  not  play 

The  social  game  in  just  the  way 

That  you  have  learned  with  toil  and  care. 

He  falls  into  each  careful  snare ; 

He  lacks  repose  ;  he  has  no  style  ; 

He  loudly  laughs  where  you  would  smile. 

But  though  I  grant  you,  if  you  please, 

A  certain  lack  of  social  ease, 

He's  helped  men  live  and  helped  them  die, 

While  you  have  learnt  to  fold  a  tie. 

The  restlessness  of  men,  which  some  call  Pro- 
gress (with  the  biggest  possible  P),  is  satirized  in 
An  Allegory,  which  reminds  one  of  the  bleak, 
unadorned  stuff  of  Charles  Sorley  :— 

I  heard  a  sound  of  running  feet, 
And  all  along  the  dusty  street 

A  multitude  came  sweeping  by. 
On  every  shoulder  was  a  load, 
Each  drove  his  neighbour  with  a  goad. 

I  saw  one  stop,  and  heard  him  cry — 
"Why  drive  ye  in  this  dreadful  race, 
Why  urge  ye  such  an  awful  pace, 

What  treasure  do  ye  look  to  find  ? " 
They  turned  upon  him  in  amaze 
And  gaped  at  him  with  owlish  gaze. 

And  suddenly  I  saw  them — blind  ! 
"  Where  to  ?     We  neither  know  nor  care, 
But  hurry,  hurry  onward  there," — 

The  multitude  was  called  Mankind. 

Simplicity  of  soul  is  the  one  thing  which  is  not 
vanity,  of  vanities  at  the  long  last :— 


no  LOST    LEADERS 

When  you  have  grasped  the  highest  rung, 
When  the  last  hymn  of  praise  is  sung, 
When  all  around  you  thousands  bow, 
When  Fame  with  laurel  binds  your  brow, 
When  you  have  reached  the  utmost  goal 
That  you  have  set  your  hurrying  soul 
To  reach,  and  found  that  it  is  dim  ; 
When  you  have  gratified  each  whim, 
When  naught  is  left  you  to  desire, 
You  of  the  whole  round  world  shall  tire  : 
Then  you  shall  see  the  whole  thing  small 
Beside  the  one  gift  worth  it  all. 
The  one  good  thing  from  pole  to  pole 
Is  called  Simplicity  of  Soul. 

He  was  vexed  in  his  very  soul,  as  happens  to  so 
many  deep  and  loving  natures,  by  a  sense  of  the 
impossibility  of  a  complete  understanding  between 
any  two  human  beings.  In  The  Barrier  this 
strange,  sad  thought  is  well  worked  out:— 

A  wall  and  gulf  for  ever  lie  between, 

Not  all  that  we  may  do  through  love  or  wit 

Can  quite  avail  to  pull  away  the  screen, 

Nor  yet  succeed  in  bridging  o'er  the  pit. 

He  knows  the  reason,  He  that  ordered  it, 

Who  bade  us  love  but  never  undrestand. 

He  fixed  the  barrier  as  He  saw  fit, 

And  bade  us  yearn  and  still  stretch  forth  the  hand 

Across  the  very  sea  He'd  said  should  ne'er  be  spanned. 

Be  sure  this  great  and  aching  love  of  mine, 

That  ever  yearns  to  know  and  to  be  known, 

Can  tear  the  veil  that  sometimes  seems  so  fine 

As  though  'twere  cobweb  waiting  but  the  blow 

To  fall  asunder  and  for  ever  go. 

E'en  as  I  rise  to  strike,  it  is  too  late, 

The  cobwebs  billow,  thicken,  seem  to  grow 

To  a  thick  wall  with  buttress  tall  and  great  .  .   . 

I  stand  alone,  a  stranger  at  a  city  gate. 

Except  ye  become  as  little  children  is  the  title 
of  an  epigram  in  which  this  truth  is  even  more 
rigorously  enforced : — 


Photo  />y  y.  Stanley 


THOMAS  M.  KETTLE 
(LIEUTENANT,  DUBLIN  FUSILIERS) 


COLWYN  &  ROLAND  PHILIPPS  in 

With  iron  will  but  ever-ebbing  force 

He  held  him  dumb  and  desperate  to  the  course, 

And  when  Death  came  upon  him,  broken-hearted, 

He'd  almost  reached  the  place  .  .  .  from  which  he  started. 

I  have  given  only  examples  of  the  verse  which 
defines  his  ultimate  philosophy  of  living.  You 
must  read  the  In  Memoriam  collection  of  his  poetry 
and  prose,  if  you  wish  to  know  how  joyously  he 
can  write  on  racing  and  hunting,  the  wild  beauty 
of  Lydstep  by  the  sea,  the  infinite  charm  of  children, 
the  faithfulness  of  animals,  the  perplexities  of  loving, 
and  so  forth.  His  own  life  was  the  best  of  his 
poems.  Can  more  be  said  ? 


THE  SACRED  WAY 
DOUGLAS  GILLESPIE 

And  here  for  dear  dead  brothers  we  are  weeping, 
Mourning  the  withered  rose  of  chivalry, 
Yet,  their  work  done,  the  dead  are  sleeping,  sleeping 
Unconscious  of  the  long  lean  years  to  be. 

SO  an  anonymous  writer  in  the  Wykehamist 
of  July  31,  1917,  interpreting,  as  it  were, 
the  feelings  of  the  Old  Boys  gathered  in 
conclave  to  consider  whether  a  War  Cloister  or 
other  edifice  of  stone  and  mortar  shall  stand  as  the 
permanent  memorial  of  the  many  gallant  dead 
from  Wykeham's  School.  The  Crimean  Porch  and 
the  South  African  and  Herbert  Stewart  Gates  stand 
in  memory  of  Wykehamist  patriotism  of  the  past, 
and  a  Cloister  might  serve  as  an  incentive,  were  such 
needed,  to  the  boys  of  future  years  to  uphold  the 
traditions  of  the  School.  But  there  sprang  from  the 
heart  and  brain  of  one  of  Winchester's  most  dis- 
tinguished scholars,  now  resting  like  so  many  others 
in  the  blood-sodden  fields  of  Flanders,  so  noble  a 
suggestion  for  a  wider  memorial — an  international 
memorial — of  this  greatest  of  all  wars,  that  one 
would  fain  hope  to  see  the  Wiccamical  Body,  as 
partners  in  the  greater  scheme,  throw  the  weight 
of  their  influence  into  an  effort  to  have  it  trans- 
lated into  the  memorial  of  our  "withered  rose  of 
chivalry." 

Alexander  Douglas  Gillespie,  subaltern  in  the 
Argyll  and  Sutherland  Highlanders,  writing  from 
the  trenches  to  Mr  Kendall,  his  beloved  Head  at 
Winchester,  thus  put  forward  his  inspiration  of  a 
memorial  road  on  the  Western  Front  that  should 
be  a  Via  Sacra,  but  not  a  Via  Dolorosa  : — 

112 


(LIEUTENANT, 


DOUGLAS   GILLESPIE 
ARGYLL   AND   SUTHERLAND   HIGHLANDERS) 


DOUGLAS    GILLESPIE        113 

u  In  May  the  fruit  blossom  was  beautiful  where 
our  trenches  ran  through  an  orchard,  and  we  used 
to  go  back  at  night  to  a  ruined  village  and  plunder 
the  gardens  in   order   to   make  our  own.     So  we 
have   rose  trees,  too,  and  pansies   and   lily  of  the 
valley,  but  not  in  this  unquiet  corner  where  I  am  at 
present ;  for  here  the  Germans  are  almost  on  three 
sides  of  us,  and  the  dead  have  been  buried  just  where 
they  fell,  behind  the  trenches.       There  are  graves 
scattered    up    and    down,    some    with    crosses    and 
names?  upon  them,  some  nameless  and  unmarked — 
as  I  think  my  brother's  grave   must  be,  for  they 
have    been    fighting    round    the   village    where    he 
was  killed  all  through  these  eight  months.     That 
doesn't  trouble  me  much,  for  iraa-a  yrj  ra<£os;    but 
still,  these  fields  are  sacred   in   a  sense,  and  I  wish 
that  when  the  peace  comes  our  Government  might 
combine  with  the  French  Government  to  make  one 
long  avenue  between  the  lines  from  the  Vosges  to 
the  sea,  or,  if  that   is  too  much,  at  any  rate  from 
La  Bassee  to  Ypres.     The  ground  is  so  pitted  and 
scarred  and  torn  with  shells  and  tangled  with  wire 
that  it  will  take  years  to  bring  it  back  to  use  again ; 
but   I  would  make  a  fine  broad  road  in  the  c  No 
Man's    Land'  between  the  lines,   with    paths    for 
pilgrims  on  foot,  and  plant  trees  for  shade,  and  fruit 
trees,  so  that  the  soil  should  not  be  altogether  waste. 
Some  of  the  shattered  farms  and  houses  might  be 
left  as  evidence,  and   the  regiments  might  put  up 
their  records  beside  the  trenches  which  they  held  all 
through  the  winter.     Then  I   would   like  to  send 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  Western  Europe 
on   pilgrimage  along  that  Via  Sacra,  so  that  they 
might  think  and  learn  what  war  means  from  the 
silent  witnesses  on  either  side.     A  sentimental  idea, 


ii4  THE   SACRED    WAY 

perhaps,  but  we  might  make  it  the  most  beautiful 
road  in  all  the  world." 

There  may  be  names  of  greater  glamour  on 
Winchester's  Roll  of  Honour  than  that  of  Douglas 
Gillespie ;  almost  the  whole  possible  number  of  her 
sons  of  military  age  have  served  or  are  serving,  and 
already  over  350  are  numbered  among  the  dead  or 
missing.  But  there  will  be  none  that  will  stand  for 
a  finer  type  of  Englishman,  using  the  word  to 
embrace  one  who,  above  all,  was  a  Scot,  proud  of  his 
land,  its  history,  and  its  associations.  For  a  man 
who  has  the  high  fortune  to  be  born  a  Scot,  with 
the  fine  inheritance  of  the  race,  to  be  educated  at  a 
great  English  public  school  with  its  tradition  of 
centuries,  and  to  pass  thence  to  Oxford,  there  to 
develop  his  faculties  in  competition  with  brilliant 
contemporaries  drawn  from  the  Empire's  farthest 
stretch,  may  be  said  to  have  well  and  truly  laid  the 
foundation  of  a  life  of  public  service.  It  was 
Douglas  Gillespie's  hope  so  to  use  his  powers.  But 
war  came ;  he  made  the  great  sacrifice — gave  his 
life  willingly  for  his  country's  cause. 

Mr  and  Mrs  T.  P.  Gillespie,  of  Longcroft,  Lin- 
lithgow,  were  supremely  fortunate  in  their  two  sons, 
Douglas  and  Tom.  Both  moved  along  the  same 
educational  lines — Cargilfield,  Winchester,  and  New 
College,  Oxford.  Douglas  was  a  scholar  to  whom 
success  came  early  and  easily.  Tom's  mind  was  of 
slower  motion.  He  was  of  superb  build,  of  an 
open-air  temperament,  and  favoured  and  excelled  in 
athletics.  At  Oxford  Douglas  carried  things  before 
him,  and  was  Ireland  scholar  of  his  year.  Tom 
rose  to  fame  as  an  oarsman.  He  rowed  for  three 
years  in  his  College  boat,  and  represented  the  United 


DOUGLAS   GILLESPIE        115 

Kingdom  in  the  New  College  crew  at  the  Olympic 
Games  in  Stockholm  in  1912.  Douglas  decided  to 
read  for  the  bar,  with  a  view  to  taking  up  Inter- 
national Law.  Tom  obtained  a  University  com- 
mission in  the  Army,  and  was  gazetted  to  the 
King's  Own  Scottish  Borderers. 

In  August  1914  came  the  call  for  service.  Tom 
joined  his  regiment,  went  at  once  to  the  Front,  and 
was  killed  on  October  18,  near  La  Bassee.  Douglas 
was  at  first  refused  a  commission  on  account  of  his 
defective  sight,  and  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  a  new 
battalion  of  the  Seaforths,  and  was  with  them  at 
Bedford  until  the  middle  of  October.  Midway  in 
training  his  commission  came,  and  he  went  to  the 
Front  in  February  1915  as  a  subaltern  in  the  Argyll 
and  Sutherland  Highlanders.  On  September  25  he 
fell  in  the  German  trenches  at  La  Bassee,  just 
eleven  months  after  his  brother  Tom  had  given 
up  his  fine  young  life  for  the  same  cause,  and  almost 
at  the  same  spot.  These  twin-lives  were  knitted 
together  in  love  and  understanding  of  each  other, 
and  in  a  deep-rooted  affection  for  parents,  home, 
and  country.  Tom  Gillespie  had  scarcely  time  to 
show  what  manner  of  man  he  was,  but  his  friends 
were  able  fully  to  estimate  his  sterling  quality. 
Douglas  Gillespie,  in  his  year  of  war,  had  fuller 
opportunity ;  but  strangely  enough  his  recognition, 
so  far  as  the  wider  general  public  was  concerned, 
came  through  the  publication  of  his  intensely  human 
letters  to  his  home  people l — written  for  their  eye 
alone,  but  properly  given  to  the  public  as  an  indica- 
tion of  his  habits  of  life  and  thought  of  the  best  of 
our  citizen-soldiers.  And  again,  strangely  enough, 
though  Tom  could  lay  no  claim  to  the  literary 

1  Letters  from  Flanders.     By  A.  D.  Gillespie.      Smith,  Elder  &  Co. 


n6  THE    SACRED    WAY 

power  of  his  brother,  his  last  letter,  which  finds  a 
place  in  Douglas's  volume,  has  touched  the  hearts 
of  thousands  of  readers  all  over  the  world.  Such  is 
the  power  of  deep  and  simple  sincerity. 

But  it  is  of  the  elder  brother  that  this  sketch  falls 
to  be  written,  though  no  memoir  would  have  been 
complete  that  omitted  reference  to  Tom.  The 
charm  of  "  Bez,"  to  use  the  familiar  name  by 
which  he  was  known  to  those  who  were  his  friends, 
manifested  itself  early.  A  former  headmaster  of 
Cargilfield,  the  fine  preparatory  school  at  Cramond 
Bridge  which  did  so  much  to  pave  the  way  for  his 
future  success,  says  he  was  one  of  the  three  ablest  boys 
encountered  during  thirty  years'  school  mastering, 
and  the  most  lovable.  He  had  not  a  trace  of 
conceit,  and  his  affection  was  generously  given  and 
openly  displayed.  He  went  to  Cargilfield  in 
September  1900,  when  eleven  years  of  age.  He 
was  placed  in  the  Third  Form  (from  the  top),  and 
soon  jumped  to  the  first  place.  Such  a  presumption 
in  a  new  boy  brought  upon  him  the  cry  of  "  beastly 
swot/'  which,  reaching  the  ears  of  the  authorities, 
led  them  to  institute  a  system  of  rewards  by  which 
an  industrious  boy  helped  his  form  to  get  an  extra 
half-holiday.  The  "beastly  swot,"  in  consequence, 
became  the  "  wise  frog "  (his  nickname  was 
"  Froggy "),  and  his  Form  applauded  and  shared 
his  success.  Of  his  ability,  Mr  H.  C.  Tillard,  a 
former  head  of  Cargilfield,  writes :  "  It  was  not 
specialized,  but  general.  He  developed  into  a 
c  pure  '  classic,  his  verses  being  a  specially  strong 
point,  but  I  feel  sure  that  he  could  just  as  well 
have  specialised  under  different  circumstances  into 
an  'applied'  classic,  or  historian,  or  even  quite 
possibly  into  a  scientist  or  mathematician.  He 


DOUGLAS    GILLESPIE        117 

had  the  most  unusual  power  of  anticipating  know- 
ledge, if  I  may  coin  the  phrase ;  for  example,  he 
had  that  queer  gift  of  being  able  to  make  out  an 
c  unseen,'  which  was  really  quite  beyond  what  was 
reasonably  to  be  expected  of  him.  This  rare  gift 
is,  in  my  experience,  an  invariable  concomitant  of 
first-class  ability.  I  suppose  it  is  partly  intuitive 
and  partly  the  result  of  unconscious  observation 
and  ratiocination." 

Douglas  was  not  prominent  at  cricket,  but  he 
was  in  the  Rugby  Union  fifteen,  playing  as  hard  as 
he  worked.  Before  he  left — he  was  elected  scholar 
of  Winchester  in  June  1903 — he  was  head  of  the 
school.  Seven  years  later,  when  he  won  the 
Ireland,  the  school,  through  its  head  boy,  Colin 
MacLehose,  sent  him  a  congratulatory  telegram, 
which  drew  from  Gillespie  a  characteristic  letter  of 
thanks.  "  Fin  afraid,"  he  wrote,  "  that  it's  over 
ten  years  now  since  I  went  to  Cargilfield,  so  that  I 
can't  claim  to  know  anyone  in  the  school  now. 
But  it's  very  nice  to  know  that  one's  name  is  not 
quite  forgotten  even  if  it  is  beginning  to  take  up  a 
position  a  long  way  back  on  the  boards  in  Hall. 
There  is  no  place  where  I  would  sooner  give 
pleasure  by  my  success  than  Cargilfield,  for  I  know 
that  I  should  never  have  found  myself  Ireland 
scholar  if  it  hadn't  been  for  what  I  learnt  there. 
And  as  most  of  the  masters  who  taught  me  are  still 
with  you,  I  hope  we  shall  see  other  scholars  from 
Cargilfield  in  a  few  years  time."  Colin  MacLehose, 
too,  it  may  be  added,  after  a  career  full  of  honour  as 
Head  of  the  Schoolhouse,  Rugby,  fell  in  action 
in  1917. 

"  One's  time  at  Winchester  is  one's  golden  age," 
wrote  Mr  Cyril  Asquith  to  Mrs  Gillespie  after 


n8 


THE   SACRED    WAY 


Douglas's  death,  "  and  no  one  who  was  with  him 
in  College  can  think  of  Winchester  apart  from 
him."  He  carried  his  high  influence  with  him  right 
through  the  school,  in  work  as  in  play.  He  entered 
the  school  in  Short  Half,  1903,  having  been  placed 
seventh  on  the  Roll  for  College.  He  moved  up 
the  school  rapidly,  and  was  half-way  up  Senior 
Division  of  Sixth  Book,  second  of  his  year,  in  Short 
Half,  1906.  Here  is  his  record  for  the  next  two 
years  :— 

June      1907.  Mentioned  in  English  Verse,  Pri/,e. 

March  1908.  Mentioned  in  Greek  Verse,  Prize. 

July      1908.  King's  Gold  Medal,  Latin  Verse. 

,,  King's  Silver  Medal,  Latin  Speech. 

,,  Warden  &  Fellow's  Prize,  Greek  Prose. 

,,  Warden  &  Fellow's  Prize,  Latin  Essay. 

,,  Proxime  Accessit,  Goddard  Scholarship. 

,,  Proxime  Accessit,  Kenneth  Freeman  Prize. 

,,  Winchester     College     School     Exhibition     "  ad 
Oxon." 

He  was  placed  second  on  the  Roll  for  New 
College  in  December  1907,  and  went  up  to 
Oxford  in  the  following  year.  It  must  be  re- 
membered that  his  was  a  time  of  very  strong 
classical  competition,  and  two  of  his  strongest 
opponents  (and  equally  strong  friends)  were  Cyril 
Asquith  and  D.  Davies,  both  of  them  distinguished 
in  many  directions.  Perhaps  no  one  outside  his 
family,  except  Mr  Rendall,  the  present  Headmaster 
of  Winchester,  and  then  his  housemaster  and  tutor, 
knew  Douglas  Gillespie  more  intimately  than 
Cyril  Asquith,  his,  successor  as  Ireland  scholar, 
and  one  may  be  pardoned  therefore  for  quoting  from 
the  very  fine  tribute  paid  by  him  to  his. dead  friend 
in  the  private  letter  to  Mrs  Gillespie  from  which 
quotation  has  been  made.  It  sums  up  concisely  the 
feeling  of  all  Gillespie's  Winchester  contemporaries : 


DOUGLAS    GILLESPIE        119 

"  He  was  my  first  friend  at  Winchester,"  he 
wrote,  "  and  I  associate  with  him  chiefly  long 
walks  and  bicycle  rides  for  birds'  eggs  on  summer 
afternoons — days  of  more  unclouded  happiness  than 
I  have  had  since.  I  had  then — as  I  have  still — a 
limitless  admiration  for  him.  First,  because  he 
could  always  find  a  bird's  nest  when  I  could  see 
nothing,  and  because  he  could  tell  what  tuft  of 
grass  would  bear  one's  weight  in  crossing  a  bog. 
Then  because  he  had  an  uncanny  aptitude  for 
Greek  and  Latin.  Lastly,  because  he  could  win 
people's  hearts  at  once  by  his  inimitable  candour 
and  friendliness.  .  .  .  He  had  aM.  I  value  most — 
kindness,  intelligence,  sympathy,  taste,  humour, 
wisdom,  vitality,  and  a  certain  moral  elevation. 
.  .  .  He  abhorred  sentimentality,  but  sentiment 
he  Jiad  in  plenty,  particularly  for  the  humble  and 
obscure.  No  man  was  ever  less  dominated  by  the 
world's  scale  of  values.  The .  State  has  lost  in 
him  just  the  type  of  servant  it  can  least  afford 
to  sacrifice;  his  friends  a  man  who  had  something 
like  a  genius  for  friendship.  Much  as  I  loved 
him  I  had  no  idea  what  a  gap  he  would  make 
in  my  life.  Much  more  must  you  be  desolated 
who  have  given  him  and  another  magnificent 
son  to  the  greatest  cause  which  ever  exacted  these 
sacrifices.  For  you  there  is  unbounded  sorrow, 
but  with  it  all  the  priceless  consolation  which  the 
manner  of  his  life  and  death  affords — a  life  of 
flawless  integrity,  honesty,  and  capacity  devoted  to 
generous  causes,  and  a  death  which,  if  he  had  lived 
fifty  years  longer,  he  could  not  have  bettered." 

"  His  life  was  like  his  scholarship,"  he  wrote 
again;  "there  was  a  fine  sort  of  reticence  about 
both.  He  did  not  over-express  himself,  and  he 


120 


THE   SACRED    WAY 


was  always  as  good  as  his  word  or  better."  These 
passages  were  written  at  Winchester,  where  the 
writer  was  temporarily  stationed  and  where  old 
memories  had  been  poignantly  revived.  "  This 
place,"  he  continued,  "  is  very — sometimes  almost 
intolerably — reminiscent  of  one's  lost  friends,  and 
particularly  of  Bez,  because  of  all  our  long  rambles 
together.  Every  stick  and  stone  had  a  history  for 
us,  and  now  has  only  a  history  for  me.  I  went 
over  College  yesterday,  and  saw  the  c  shop '  where 
he  used,  his  first  term,  to  do  a  sword  dance,  the 
panels  in  Vth,  where  he  used  to  secrete  a  large 
slab  of  maple  sugar,  which  we  consumed  together — 
the  place  where  he  and  I  and  another  man  acted 
a  charade  of  the  Boston  tea  party." 

Douglas  Gillespie  had  other  sides  than  that  of 
bookishness.  He  had  a  merry  heart,  and  was  not 
behindhand  when  any  fun  was  going  on  at  College. 
He  was,  moreover,,  an  excellent  shot  and  a  keen 
angler,  and  when  he  was  a  junior  at  Winchester 
he  won  a  cup  for  senior  "  purling "  (diving).  He 
was  devoted  to  hill  climbing ;  he  went  "  up  the 
steepest  mountains  like  a  rabbit,  leaving  everybody 
far  behind,  sweating  and  swearing."  He  was 
interested  in  botany  and  a  keen  naturalist.  He 
had  a  very  good  collection  of  birds'  eggs,  all  got 
by  himself;  he  would  not  keep  any  that  he 
himself  had  not  found.  He  took  horrible  risks 
in  getting  some  of  them,  clinging  by  his  nails  on 
the  face  of  some  perilous  cliff,  after  a  raven's  or 
buzzard's  nest,  or  swarming  up  a  tall  fir  tree,  with 
only  a  few  rotten  branches  near  the  top,  for  the 
eggs  of  a  heron  or  a  hawk. 

But  we  have  dallied  too  long  at  Winchester, 
and  we  must  let  Mr  H.  W.  B.  Joseph,  Fellow 


DOUGLAS    GILLESPIE        121 

of  New  College,  and  one  who  knew  Douglas  well, 
speak  briefly  for  Gillespie's  work  at  Oxford,  where 
the  man  fulfilled  the  rich  promise  of  his  youth. 

"  Among  the  best  there  is  no  one  first,"  he 
writes,  "  but  I  don't  know  whom,  among  those 
I  remember  here,  I  would  put  before  him. 
Gillespie  came  to  New  College  as  a  scholar  from 
Winchester  in  October  1908.  I  do  not  think  his 
work  for  election  had  given  full  promise  of  his 
subsequent  achievement  as  a  classic,  but  he  soon 
showed  his  quality,  and  in  December  1910  he 
won  the  chief  classical  prize  in  the  University, 
the  Ireland.  He  was,  however,  much  more  than 
a  brilliant  translator  and  composer,  having  a  keen 
love  for  all  kinds  of  good  literature,  and  a  robust, 
critical  sense.  Nor  were  his  abilities  only  literary ; 
for  he  could  seize  quickly  and  make  himself  master 
of  a  difficult  subject  and  he  had  an  eye  for  the 
important  issues.  He  had  a  strong  and  accurate 
memory,  and  his  judgment  was  steady  and  inde- 
pendent ;  and  he  could  express  himself  forcibly 
and  clearly,  not  without  touches  of  eloquence.  .  .  . 
He  knew  that  he  had  ability,  but  he  accepted  it 
only  as  a  man  may  who  is  too  sincere  not  to 
acknowledge  what  he  finds.  He  remained 
absolutely  simple  and  unassuming,  and  though  not 
without  ambition  he  was  ambitious  to  serve  others 
and  not  himself.  .  .  .  He  was  keenly  interested 
in  social  and  political  questions,  and  a  prominent 
member  at  Oxford  of  the  chief  University  Liberal 
Club,  but  he  was  never  a  mere  party  man.  Of 
the  many  who  have  fallen  in  the  first  flower  of 
their  age  I  know  none  whose  death  seems  to  me 
in  sober  earnest  more  of  a  public  loss,  for  he  had 
gifts  which  political  life  requires  without  the  weak- 


122  THE   SACRED    WAY 

nesses  that  beset  so  many  politicians,  and  he  was 
resolved  to  use  these  gifts  not  for  his  own  profit, 
but  for  his  Country's.  No  one  was  more  generally 
liked  among  his  contemporaries,  and  at  the  same 
time  no  one  was  more  respected.  He  would 
take  the  popular  and  unpopular  side  with  equal 
unconcern,  according  as  he  judged  right,  and  others, 
whether  they  agreed  or  disagreed,  would  hear  him 
and  not  mistrust  him.  He  had  no  fear,  and  he 
could  show  indignation,  but  it  was  always  without 
malice.  He  went  directly  forward  upon  the  work 
that  was  to  be  done,  without  considering  what 
others  would  think  of  him,  but  in  the  courtesies 
of  daily  life  he  thought  first  of  others." 

Gillespie's  Letters  from  Flanders  show  his  love 
of  parents,  of  school,  of  country,  of  nature,  of 
books,  and  of  friends.  Winchester  was  always  with 
him,  and  one  is  glad  that  in  the  later  editions  of 
the  book — the  profits  of  which,  by  the  way,  are 
being  added  to  a  fund  provided  (in  accordance  with 
his  will)  by  the  refunding  of  his  Winchester  and 
New  College  Scholarships  for  the  benefit  of  boys 
that  are  not  too  well  off — the  letter  to  Mr  Rendall 
on  the  Via  Sacra  is  given  in  its  entirety.  One 
passage  will  go  straight  to  the  hearts  of  all 
Winchester  boys :  The  Germans  were  hurling 
"  sausages  "  at  them. 

"  The  sausages,"  he  writes,  "  are  rather  like  a 
Bath  Oliver  biscuit  tin — only  not  quite  so  big- 
full  of  old  nails  and  rusty  scrap-iron,  and  they 
make  an  infernal  din.  We  could  see  them  come 
flying  over  the  tops  of  some  tall  trees  which 
stand  above  our  trenches,  turning  over  and  over 
in  the  air.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  a  junior 


DOUGLAS    GILLESPIE        123 

again  in  Meads,  taking  practice  in  high  c  barters ' 
from  Gordon,  Nicolls,  Fawcus,  and  other  giants 
of  those  days.  For  the  sausage  seemed  to  hang 
in  the  air  above  my  head,  just  as  the  ball  did -to 
a  nervous  and  incompetent  cricketer  like  myself, 
and  I  wondered  when  and  where  it  was  coming 
down,  #nd  whether  it  would  hit  a  branch  and 
fall  straight  into  the  trench,  and  what  would 
happen  then.  ...  I  heard  the  Captain  beside  me 
shout  when  the  first  sausage  went  up :  c  Well,  I 
am  a  rotter  if  I  drop  that  catch ! '  and  that  made 
the  telephone  Orderly  laugh  so  much  that  he  could 
hardly  pass  the  fire  orders  to  his  mortar.  The 
next  minute  a  sausage  smashed  all  his  wires,  and 
he  had  to  go  out  and  mend  them  in  the  open,  with 
shrapnel  flying  round,  but  he  came  back  still 
laughing." 

Take  again  this  description  of  a  nightingale 
singing  over  the  Flanders  battlefield  : — 

"  Presently  a  misty  morn  came  up,  and  a  nightin- 
gale began  to  sing.  I  have  only  heard  him  once 
before  in  the  daytime,  near  Farly  Mount  at 
Winchester ;  but  of  course  I  knew  him  at  once, 
and  it  was  strange  to  stand  there  and  listen,  for  the 
song  seemed  to  come  all  the  more  sweetly  and 
clearly  in  the  quiet  intervals  between  the  bursts 
of  firing.  There  was  something  infinitely  sweet 
and  sad  about  it,  as  if  the  country-side  were  singing 
gently  to  itself  in  the  midst  of  all  our  noise  and 
confusion  and  muddy  work;  so  that  you  felt  the 
nightingale's  song  was  the  only  real  thing  which 
would  remain  when  all  the  rest  was  long  past  and 
forgotten.  It  is  such  an  old  song  too,  handed  on 
from  nightingale  to  nightingale  through  the  summer 
nights  of  so  many  innumerable  years.  ...  So  I 


i24  THE    SACRED    WAY 

stood  there,  and  thought  of  all  the  men  and  women 
who  had  listened  to  that  song,  just  as  for  the  first 
few  weeks  after  Tom  was  killed  I  found  myself 
thinking  perpetually  of  all  the  men  who  had  been 
killed  in  battle — Hector  and  Achilles  and  all  the 
heroes  of  long  ago,  who  were  once  so  strong  and 
active,  and  now  are  so  quiet.  Gradually  the  night 
wore  on  until  day  began  to  break,  and  I  could  see 
the  daisies  and  buttercups  in  the  long  grass  about 
my  feet." 

One  could  quote  endlessly.  The  bog  myrtle 
from  the  Highlands,  the  smell  of  warm  mint  and 
water  weeds  in  Flanders,  the  singing  of  the  birds- 
each  had  its  message  for  him — memories  of  Scot- 
land, of  Winchester,  of  Oxford.  The  friends  of 
boyhood  and  manhood  fell  fighting  around  him, 
and  for  each  he  *  had  his  little  sprig  of  rue.  But 
his  love  for  his  home  folks  was  surpassing  strong, 
and  two  letters — one  the  last  from  England  as  he 
left  for  France,  the  other  written  on  the  eve  of 
his  death,  and  with  apparently  full  prevision  of 
what  the  morrow  was  to  bring  forth — seem  to 
enclose,  as  the  golden  setting  grips  a  jewel,  all  that 
animated  and  inspired  his  life  and  death. 

February  19,,  1915. 

For  no  one  likes  saying  good-bye.  ...  I  was 
always  proud  to  be  your  son,  but  you  have  made 
me  prouder  than  ever — and  you  and  Daddy  must 
remember  when  I  am  in  France  that  my  greatest 
help  will  always  be  to  think  of  you  at  home,  for 
whatever  comes  I  shall  be  ready  for  it.  ...  And 
now  you  will  know  all  the  time  how  glad  I  am  to 
be  young  and  fit  for  something  whatever  news  you 
get  of  me  ;  when  a  man  is  fighting  for  his  country 


DOUGLAS    GILLESPIE        125 

in  a  war  like  this  the  news  is  always  good  if  his 
spirit  does  not  fail,  and  that  I  hope  will  never 
happen  to  your  son. 

September  24,  1915. 

Before  long  I  think  we  shall  be  in  the  thick  of 
it,  for  if  we  do  attack  my  company  will  be  one  of 
those  in  front,  and  I  am  likely  to  lead  it.  .  .  . 
I  have  no  forebodings,  for  I  feel  that  so  many  of 
my  friends  will  charge  by  my  side,  and  if  a  man's 
spirit  may  wander  back  at  all,  especially  to  the 
places  where  he  is  needed  most,  then  Tom  will  be 
here  to  help  me  and  give  me  courage  and  resource, 
and  that  cool  head  which  will  be  needed  most  of 
all  to  make  the  attack  a  success.  It  will  be  a  great 
fight,  and  even  when  I  think  of  you  I  would 
not  wish  to  be  out  of  this.  You  remember 
Wordsworth's  "  Happy  Warrior  " — 

Who  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad,  for  human  kind 

Is  happy  as  a  lover,  and  is  attired 

With  sudden  brightness  like  a  man  inspired. 

Well,  I  could  never  be  all  that  a  happy  warrior 
should  be,  but  it  will  please  you  to  know  that  I 
am  very  happy,  and,  whatever  happens,  you  will 
remember  that. 

These  letters — these  are  striking  parallels  in  the 
abounding  love  of  those  Happy  Warriors,  the  two 
Grenfells,  for  their  parents — give  the  keynote  to 
the  work  of  our  soldier  sons.  It  is  the  love  of 
home,  and  of  the  homeland  encompassing  all  that 
lies  near  and  dear  to  them,  and  not  blood-lust  that 
has  nerved  our  men  to  meet  death  tranquilly — 
almost  half-way —  on  the  field. 


126  THE   SACRED    WAY 

"  Somehow  I  never  thought  this  blow  would 
fall,"  wrote  Mr  Kendall  sadly.  "  He  was  so  buoyant, 
so  brave,  so  equable,  so  full  of  the  wine  of  life 
that  it  seemed  impossible  for  this  light  to  go  out 
suddenly.  He  had  twice  as  much  stuff  in  him  as 
most  men :  fibre  and  nerve  for  all  the  battle  of  life. 
I  had  looked  forward  eagerly  to  the  fulfilment  of 
this  rich  promise.  Now  it  must  be  elsewhere." 

The  tragedy  and  yet  the  glory  of  it  all  ! 

W.  H. 


HUGH    VAUGHAN    CHARLTON 

(LIEUTENANT,    7TH    NORTHUMBERLAND    FUSILIERS) 
From  a  painting  by  his  father,  John  Charlton 


NATURE  WORSHIPPERS 
HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON 

LOVE  of  country  in  the  Englishman  is 
always  something  above  and  beyond  the 
'ics  and  'isms  of  the  professional  patriot. 
Much  more  often  than  not  it  is  articulate  only  in 
works,  never  in  words  ;  so  that  such  an  essential 
Englishman  as  Dr  Johnson  went  so  far  as  to 
suggest  that  patriotism  as  a  political  creed  was 
the  last  refuge  of  a  scoundrel.  It  is  but  rarely, 
even  in  poetry,  that  love  of  country  has  expressed 
itself  as  clearly  as  in  the  noble  lines  of  a  young 
soldier  poet  who,  on  the  eve  of  going  into  action, 
had  a  sudden  vision  of  the  beauty  of  the  far-off 
English  countryside,  and  at  last  understood  that 
the  fair  sights  and  sounds  and  perfumed  airs  of 
his  mother  country  belonged  only  to  those  who 
would  fight  to  keep  home  inviolate : 

O  yellow-hammer,  once  I  heard 

Thy  yaffle  when  no  other  bird 

Could  to  my  sunk  heart  comfort  bring, 

But  now  I  could  not  have  thee  sing 

So  sharp  thy  note  is  with  the  pain 

Of  England  I  may  not  see  again ! 

Yet  sing  thy  song  :  there  answereth 

Deep  in  me  a  voice  which  saith : 

'  *  The  gorse  upon  the  tivilit  down 

The  English  loam  so  sunset  brown 

The  bowed  pines  and  the  sheep-bells'1  clamour 

The  wet,  lit  lane  and  the  yellow-hammer  y 

The  orchard  and  the  chaffinch  song 

Only  to  the  Brave  belong, 

And  he  shall  lose  their  joy  for  aye 

If  their  price  he  cannot  pay. 

Who  shall  jind  them  dearer  far 

Enriched  by  blood  after  long  war" 

127 


128       NATURE   WORSHIPPERS 

In  some  form  or  other  this  thought  has  occurred 
to  all  our  soldier  poets — that  the  bird-song  and 
wild  flowers  of  their  green  island,  the  very  sea- 
fenced  garden  of  the  whole  wide  world,  are  the 
heritage  of  valour  and  in  some  sense  its  re- 
ward. The  "  conscientious  objector  "  who  became  a 
combatant  on  the  score  that  he  was  ashamed  of 
hearing  the  cuckoo  and  doing  nothing,  must  have 
had  a  glimmering  of  this  great  truth  in  his 
momentarily-darkened  soul.  Foreign  critics,  how- 
ever, fail  to  understand  how  the  Englishman's  pro- 
found patriotism  finds  its  best  expression  in  what 
are  really  acts  of  nature-worship — worship  of  the 
various  and  benign  Nature  that  inhabits  this  fair 
and  fortunate  island. 

And  so  they  go  on  calling  us  a  nation  of 
shop-keepers,  with  whom  commercial  interest  is  the 
over-ruling  motive — because,  forsooth,  our  love  of 
country  is  so  deeply  rooted  in  our  hearts  that  no 
lip-service  can  do  full  justice  to  it.  They  say— 
What  do  they  say  ?  Let  them  say. 

Patriotism  as  nature-worship  has  its  highest 
fulfilment  in  the  works  and  days  of  John  and 
Hugh  Charlton,  the  two  sons  of  a  distinguished 
artist,  Mr  John  Charlton  of  Knightsbridge  and 
Newcastle-on-Tyne.  Both  of  them  were  keen 
and  indefatigable  students  of  bird-life ;  they  studied 
the  beautiful  winged  creatures  of  this  island-sanctu- 
ary with  the  intelligence  and  industry  shown  by 
Henri  Fabre  in  his  investigations  of  insect-life. 
Each  had  a  great  tenderness  for  the  small,  innocent 
lives,  which  they  lived  to  understand,  and  they 
were  quite  free  from  the  mania  to  go  out  and 
kill  something,  which  is  still  far  too  common 
among  so-called  sportsmen.  They  would  sooner 


tCjl«»  - 


o 


SKETCHES    BY    HUGH    VAUGHAN    CHARLTON 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  129 

use  pencil  or  paint-brush  than  a  shot-gun,  and 
as  each  of  them  inherited  his  father's  artistic 
ability,  their  many  character-sketches  of  birds  con- 
stitute a  fascinating  record  of  their  studies  and  one 
which  is  a  permanent  addition  to  our  knowledge 
of  wild  life.  It  was  the  living  creatures  they 
were  interested  in  ;  not  the  small  dead  bodies  to 
which  the  elder  brother,  a  taxidermist  of  genius, 
took  such  infinite  pains  to  restore  the  vivid 
semblance  of  life. 

When  war  was  declared  they  lost  not  a  moment 
in  responding  to  the  call  to  arms.  They  had  the 
happiness  of  leading  men,  brave  and  untiring 
Northern  folk,  to  whom  they  were  united  by  a 
mutual  love  of  open-air  sport  and  many  another  tie 
of  true  neighbourliness.  They  were  devoted  to  their 
men,  who  returned  their  devotion  and  had  the 
fullest  confidence  in  their  leadership.  They  both 
fell  in  action  and  are  buried  in  France,  where 
their  graves  are  especially  visited — who  can  doubt 
it  ? — by  the  small  winged  pilgrims  whose  4<  tiny 
foot-steps  print  the  vernal  ground,"  to  quote  from 
the  beautiful  stanza  which  Gray  left  out  of  his 
Elegy  in  the  second  edition. 

I 

PI  ugh  Vaughan  Charlton  was  born  in  London 
on  April  10,  1884,  and  was  educated  at  Aldenham 
School.  Even  as  a  boy  he  had  keen  powers 
of  open-air  observation,  and  as  time  went  on  he 
proved  himself  possessed  of  a  fine  sense  of  colour 
and  a  really  wonderful  gift  for  drawing  and 
sketching.  His  father  was  at  first  unwilling  that 
he  should  adopt  art  as  his  profession,  well  knowing 


130     NATURE    WORSHIPPERS 

that  many  are  called  but  few  chosen  in  that  perilous 
pursuit.  Passionately  fond  of  country  life  as  he 
was,  he  decided  to  make  farming  his  metier,  and  for 
a  time  he  studied  practical  agriculture  at  farms  near 
Castle  Carroch  (in  Cumberland)  and  on  the  Solway. 
But  the  artist  whose  art  is  a  form  of  nature- 
worship  could  not  be  suppressed  in  him — most  of 
his  time  there  was  spent  in  making  natural  history 
observations  and  painting  the  birds,  animals,  and 
scenery  of  Cumberland  .and  the  Solway  country. 
Eventually  his  father  allowed  him  to  follow  his 
bent,  and  he  studied  painting  and  drawing  at 
Newcastle-on-Tyne,  Edinburgh  and  London. 
The  work  he  left  behind  shows  rare  talent,  and 
his  choice  of  a  profession  was  fully  justified  by  what 
was  seen  of  it  at  the  Royal  Academy  and  various 
Provincial  Exhibitions,  "  The  Home  of  the  Dipper," 
which  was  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  1912, 
bearing  witness  to  his  keen  craftsmanship  and  pro- 
found knowledge  of  the  habits  and  habitations  of 
Nature's  pensioners  in  our  little  island  wildernesses. 
Had  he  lived,  he  must  have  won  a  high  place 
among  the  painters  who  find  their  subjects  in  the 
inexhaustible  book  of  the  English  countryside — 
ubi  cor,  ibi  thesaurus  is  their  motto,  and  their  work 
is  patriotism  in  terms  of  line  and  colour ! 

Thanks  to  their  father's  kindness  I  am  able  to 
give  reproductions  of  the  wonderful  drawings  in 
which  these  two  brothers  have  interpreted  the  very 
character  of  the  birds  they  observed  with  so  much 
loving  kindness.  They  were  devoted  to  one 
another  and  to  their  father  who,  owing  to  the  early 
death  of  their  mother,  had  brought  them  up  from 
childhood.  Their  notes  and  observations  formed 
a  common  fund  of  nature  lore;  no  distinction  of 


li 


THE   CORMORANT 
A   STUDY    FROM    LIFE   BY    HUGH    VAUGHAN    CHARLTON 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  131 

meum  and  tuum  was  ever  drawn  in  their  joint 
records ;  and  some  of  the  elder  brother's  notes  and 
writings  are  included  among  the  younger's.  But 
here  is  a  charming  word-picture  of  Solway  birds 
from  Hugh's  notes  :— 

I  go  for  a  walk  along  the  shore.  The  tide  is  far  out,  and 
the  rays  of  the  sun  are  glinting  on  the  flat,  wet  sands  through 
which  the  oozy  Wampool  meanders.  Dotted  over  these  are 
white  objects  which  sit  perfectly  still  by  the  edge  of  the  stream 
or  pools.  These  are  common  and  black-headed  gulls ;  they 
are  having  a  rest  from  feeding,  and  seem  to  see  something  more 
in  the  water  into  which  they  gaze  than  their  own  reflections. 
Perhaps  they  are  thinking  of  the  pleasures  and  trials  of  the  past 
breeding  season,  and  are  looking  at  the  same  sights  they  saw 
there.  In  this  respect  they  are  like  the  stately  heron,  which 
stands  alone  far  out  by  the  edge  of  the  tide,  but  he  has  some 
set  purpose  in  view.  .  .  .  Not  thirty  yards  in  front  three  dotteras 
are  running  about,  but  do  not  wait  for  me,  and  are  soon 
skimming  away  over  the  sand. 

A  curlew  is  flying  over,  calling  "  curlee,  curlee."  This 
seems  to  be  a  different  call  to  the  call  that  I  heard  in  early 
spring  far  away  in  the  Cumberland  hills ;  then  the  call  was 
cheerful  and  full  of  love,  but  now  it  is  a  melancholy  cry,  a  cry 
which  startles  one,  when  heard  on  a  dark  night,  while  groping 
one's  way  over  the  flats  coming  from  evening  service  at  church ; 
it  makes  one  think  some  spirit  is  calling. 

From  a  depression  in  the  sands  a  small  flock  of  dunlins  rise, 
and  flying  past,  settle  some  200  yards  in  front,  where  they 
immediately  begin  to  feed.  The  oyster  catchers  and  ringed 
dotteras  breed  here,  and  when  I  approached,  several  rose,  and 
flying  round,  kept  up  a  continual  whistling,  but  I  cannot  find 
any  eggs.  I  count  twenty  shelduck  sitting  in  a  row  on  the  wet 
sand.  Two  oyster  catchers  rise  up  calling  loudly  and  circling 
round  very  fast ;  one  flies  slowly  in  front  of  me  for  about  30 
yards  with  its  wings  stretched  full  out,  pretending  to  be 
wounded,  thus  showing  they  have  eggs  or  young  near.  As 
I  walk  they  become  more  and  more  excited.  One  suddenly 
makes  a  rush  at  me,  and  when  close  to,  swoops  upwards  over 
my  head.  ...  As  I  pass  an  old  shooting  punt  drawn  up  on 
shore,  I  think  of  its  work  next  winter.  I  seem  to  see  it  gliding 
slowly  up  to  a  huge  flock  of  barnacle  geese  floating  lazily  on  the 
water,  with  old  Tonu  Jackson  lying  full  length  in  it  with  his 
huge  old  gun  pointing  over  its  bow.  I  hear  the  crash  as  the  fatal 


132     NATURE   WORSHIPPERS 

weapon  is  discharged,  and  see  the  commotion  among  the  geese  as 
they  rise  up,  leaving  some  of  their  number  floundering  about  in 
the  water  in  their  death  throes. 

Many  people  have  seen  such  sights  in  the  watery 
fastnesses  of  the  circuit  of  the  English  coast-line— 
but  few  indeed  know  even  the  names  of  the  birds 
that  inhabit  there,  much  less  their  manners  and 
customs,  which  vary  slightly  from  place  to  place. 
Is  it  not  better  thus  to  study  life  between  the  sun 
and  sea  than  to  dissect  some  poor,  pathetic  body 
of  death  in  a  laboratory  ?  Henri  Fabre  compares 
the  latter  work — the  science  that  brings  fine  salaries 
and  letters  lining  up  after  one's  name — with  the 
slicing  of  carrots  by  his  housekeeper  to  make  a 
modest  dish  which  is  not  always  a  success.  But 
the  academic  scientists  are  like  Drover  Dingdong's 
sheep,  which  followed  the  ram  Panurge  had 
maliciously  thrown  overboard,  and  one  after 
another  leapt  nimbly  into  the  sea.  There  is  more 
true  science,  surely,  in  the  field  notes  of  Hugh 
and  John  Charlton,  naturalists  and  sportsmen ;  for 
they  studied  instinct  and  intelligence  in  the  living 
creature,  and  it  is  the  problems  which  cluster  about 
these  matters  which  must  now  be  solved  if  we 
would  get  a  nearer  and  clearer  understanding  of 
the  high  mystery  of  the  unfolding  of  intelligence 
on  this  planet. 

When  war  thundered  out  of  a  sky  that  had 
seemed  cloudless  a  little  while  before,  both  these 
brothers — the  artist  and  the  naturalist — at  once 
sacrificed  all  they  were,  all  they  might  have  been, 
to  the  nation's  need.  Hugh  was  studying  in 
Edinburgh  at  the  time,  and  at  once  joined  the 
O.T.C.  of  the  Armstrong  College  at  Newcastle-on- 
Tyne  (where  he  had  once  been  a  pupil),  and  in 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  133 

August  1915  he  received  a  commission  in  the 
yth  Northumberland  Fusiliers.  He  was  among 
friends  and  neighbours  known,  and  his  first  and 
last  thought,  in  training  and  at  the  front,  was 
for  the  welfare  of  his  men.  He  went  to  France 
with  a  draft  of  his  Regiment  in  March  1916, 
and  was  almost  immediately  ordered  into  the 
trenches,  where  he  was  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting 
until  June  24th,  when  he  was  killed  by  a  trench 
mortar  near  Whytschaete  in  Flanders.  His  death 
was  all  the  more  tragical  because  he  had  just 
received  an  appointment,  in  which  his  artistic 
genius  would  have  had  full  play.  Those  who 
know  how  France  has  used  some  of  her  artist 
officers  can  guess  the  nature  of  the  new  work 
which  had  chosen  him.  How  shockingly  we  have 
squandered  the  special  gifts  of  our  young  officers 
in  this  War!  Yet  Hugh  Charlton  was  well 
content  to  die  among  the  home  folk  who  had 
known  him  so  long  and  saw  in  him  a  kind  of 
elder  brother. 

His  letters  from  the  Front  are  pithy  yet  pictur- 
esque records  of  incessant  "  strafing "  at  a  critical 
point  of  the  British  line.  It  is  easy  to  read  between 
the  lines  of  a  soldierly  narrative,  which  is  a  fusillade 
of  short  sentences,  what  he  was  to  his  "  grand  lads  " 
and  what  they  were  to  him.  He  hears  that  a 
sentry,  an  elderly  man,  who  had  been  knocked 
down  by  a  sandbag  during  a  terrific  bombardment 
(we  were  still  out-gunned)  had  never  left  his  post, 
and  he  hastens  to  headquarters  to  report  the  man's 
devotion  in  the  hope  he  would  be  recommended 
for  the  D.C.M.  He  is  constantly  caring  for  the 
wounded  under  fire  and  bringing  them  into  safety. 
Shrapnel  hits  his  "  tin  hat,"  and  makes  it  ring  like 


134     NATURE   WORSHIPPERS 

a  bell.  "  All  the  men  rush  to  me,"  he  writes, 
"when  a  strafe  is  on,  and  you  would  have  been 
amused  to  see  old  Hugh  with  one  on  each  arm, 
both  mad — one,  quite,  with  shell  shock.  Yester- 
day I  had  a  devil  of  a  job  to  get  them  away,  they 
clung  to  me  the  more — I  joke  with  the  men  when 
they  are  shelling,  it  keeps  them  up.  Come  on, 
Newcastle!  Play  up!"  The  figure  of  a  true 
soldier,  full  of  old,  cold  courage  and  cheery  all 
the  time,  emerges  clearly  from  his  brief,  breathless, 
workaday  letters.  These  letters  are  literature  cleared 
for  action ;  I  wish  I  had  space  to  quote  them  in 
full.  And,  though  soldiering  is  his  one  preoccupa- 
tion, the  artist  and  the  naturalist  and  the  critic  (so 
severe  on  his  own  work)  refuse  to  be  suppressed. 
He  has  an  eye  for  every  living  thing — 

Lean-visaged  beast  in  dingy  coat 
Or  bird  no  bigger  than  a  mote — 

which  comes  into  or  about  the  trenches.  He  hears 
a  nightingale  (at  3.45  A.M.)  and  sees  him  sitting  on 
a  fence  near  a  communication  trench.  The  calling 
of  cuckoos  is  noted ;  so  also  pheasants  near  at  hand, 
and  "  rats  like  dogs,"  and  the  first  swallows  flying, 
and  a  single  pied  wagtail  close  to  his  dug-out, 
feeding  in  a  shell  hole.  He  sees  the  prettiest  little 
chestnut,  in  an  old  cart,  he  has  ever  seen,  exactly 
like  one  his  father  had  painted.  And  he  observes 
that  Landseer's  picture  of  Wellington  at  Waterloo 
is  very  real  in  its  treatment  of  the  landscape.  He  is 
all  ears  and  eyes  and  will-power,  ready  at  a  moment's 
call.  Having  read  his  letters,  one  hardly  needs  to 
learn  from  his  Colonel's  letters  (which  describes  his 
burial  on  a  beautiful  summer  evening  in  a  very 
pretty  French  landscape)  that  all,  both  officers  and 


JOHN    MACFARLAN    CHARLTON 

(CAPTAIN,    2IST    NORTHUMBERLAND    FUSILIERS,    2ND 
TYNESIDE   SCOTTISH 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  135 

men,  had  a  very  great  regard  for  him  and  that  he 
was  marked  for  rapid  promotion.  His  grave  is 
guarded  by  a  permanent  cross  set  up  by  his  battalion. 
So  lived  gallantly  and  died  gloriously  a  devout 
lover  of  our  Lady  of  Nature,  a  great  painter  in  the 
making,  and  a  complete  Englishman  of  the  North 
Country  breed  which  hates  all  shams  and  "  easy 
options  "  and  is  unsurpassed  for  sticking  it  out  in  a 
forlorn  hope. 

II 

John  Macfarlan  Charlton  was  educated  at 
Uppingham,  where  he  was  in  the  Cadet  Corps,  and 
well  liked  by  both  masters  and  boys.  He  was  a 
born  naturalist,  with  a  mastery  of  descriptive 
writing  which  adds  greatly  to  the  fascination  of  his 
field  notes.  If  he  had  been  spared  to  continue  his 
studies,  he  must  have  made  a  great  name  as  an 
ornithologist.  He  fell  in  action  at  La  Boisselle  on 
July  i,  1916,  on  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of 
his  birthday,  so  that  he  did  not  live  long  enough  to 
make  his  mark  as  a  leading  authority  on  the  subject 
to  which  he  was  so  passionately  devoted.  But  he 
had  already  shown  himself  an  adept  in  open-air 
observation.  As  quite  a  small  boy  he  won  a  special 
prize  for  an  illustrated  essay  on  The  Birds  of  the 
Fame  Islands  sent  in  for  the  John  Hancock  prize 
of  the  Natural  History  Society  of  Northumberland. 
In  1910  he  won  a  special  bronze  medal  given  by 
the  Royal  Society  for  the.  Protection  of  Birds 
(Public  Schools  Competition).  In  1912  he  wrote 
The  Birds  of  South-east  Northumberland,  which 
first  appeared  in  the  Zoologist,  and  was  afterwards 
published- as  a  pamphlet,  with  map  and  illustrations. 
In  1913  his  Notes  on  Norwegian  Birds  appeared 


136     NATURE   WORSHIPPERS 

in  Countryside,  and  was  republished  as  a  separate 
paper.  He  also  supplied  British  Birds  with  a 
number  of  interesting  notes  (beginning  with  Vol. 
IV.),  and  wrote  numerous  short  articles  for  other 
journals.  He  was  a  most  skilful  and  artistic  taxi- 
dermist, his  methods  of  securing  a  natural  and  life- 
like posture  being  "  equal  even  to  those  of  John 
Hancock  "  than  which  no  higher  compliment  could 
be  paid.  He  worked  in  words  as  his  brother  worked 
in  paint,  and  his  records  of  bird-life  against  the 
spacious  background  of  land  or  sea  and  sky  are 
literary  masterpieces  of  a  very  rare  order. 

Even  as  a  small  boy  he  would  recline  for  hours 
and  watch  a  bird  and  its  movements,  with  glasses  if 
necessary,  and  make  notes  and  sketches  of  every- 
thing it  did.  From  his  tenth  year  onwards  he  would 
study  the  structure,  anatomy,  and  plumage  of  birds, 
making  drawings  of  the  various  parts.  The  follow- 
ing little  story  shows  how  his  ruling  passion  killed 
the  sense  of  discomfort  even  in  boyhood.  He  was 
staying  with  a  boy  friend  in  a  house  on  the 
Northumberland  moors,  and  happening  to  hear  a 
bird  call  in  the  cold,  wet  grey  dawn,  he  rushed  out 
in  his  night-shirt  to  watch.  Two  hours  later  he 
returned,  drenched  and  shivering,  after  lying  out 
in  the  dewy  heather  all  the  time.  Mr  Duncan,  the 
well-known  taxidermist  of  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
taught  him  how  to  skin  and  stuff  and  set  up  birds, 
and  he  was  thus  able  to  preserve  many  of  the 
innumerable  specimens  he  collected. 

His  tenderness  for  all  quaint  winged  lives  was 
part  of  his  very  being.  In  one  of  his  notes  he  tells 
us  how  he  accidentally  destroyed  a  dipper's  nest 
with  the  eggs  nearly  hatched  out,  and  he  adds: 
"What  a  lovely  day!  But  I  cannot  enjoy  it.  I 


\  I 


AN    IMPRESSION    OF   JOHN    MACFARLAN    CI1ARLTON    BY    HIS   BROTHER 
HUGH    VAUGHAN    CHARLTON 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  137 

feel  as  though  I  had  committed  a  crime  against  my 
birds."  Many  of  his  notes  were  made  in  England 
and  Scotland — but  the  majority  are  records  of  what 
he  saw  and  heard,  yes,  and  felt,  at  Hepplewoodside 
in  Northumberland,  at  Sandisdyke  in  Cumberland, 
and  at  Cullercoats  in  Northumberland,  where  he 
lived  with  his  family  for  many  years,  and  every- 
body knew  him.  Any  uncommon  bird  found  by 
the  boys  and  fishermen  was  usually  brought  to  him. 
The  workers,  especially  the  miners,  in  the  parts  of 
Northumberland  where  he  lived  knew  him  well,  and 
would  do  anything  for  him,  and  he  was  very  much 
attached  to  them  all.  Many  of  these  kindly  neigh- 
bours were  afterwards  in  his  company  of  the  Tyne- 
side  Scottish  Regiment ;  so  that,  when  he  went  to 
the  front,  he  lived  and  died  among  his  nearest  and 
dearest  friends.  In  one  of  his  last  letters  from  the 
firing-line  he  wrote  to  his  father :  "  Look  after 
everyone  for  my  sake."  He  knew  all  the  traditions 
and  history  and  folklore  of  the  countryside  in  which 
he  lived,  and  this  knowledge  was  another  bond  of 
sympathy  between  himself  and  the  good  neighbours 
who  took  so  much  interest  in  his  work  and  under- 
stood it  so  well.  He  was  never  so  happy  as  when 
wandering  off  with  his  dogs,  "  Tiny  "  and  "  Peter," 
on  a  natural  history  expedition.  He  would  set  out 
in  all  weathers,  even  when  the  falls  were  dangerous 
with  snow  and  ice.  The  day  before  his  family  left 
Hepplewoodside  in  1905  he  went  off  to  observe  the 
birds  and  wild  goats  in  the  hills,  and  his  father  and 
others  set  out  in  search  of  him,  the  uplands  being  very 
slippery  and  dangerous  in  places.  The  search  parties 
were  recalled  by  the  blowing  of  a  coach  horn  from 
the  house  below ;  his  father  knew  that  he  was  the 
only  one  there  who  could  play  it.  His  daring  and 


138     NATURE   WORSHIPPERS 

endurance,  his  love  of  country  life  and  country  sport, 
his  neighbourliness  and  cheery  manner  and  open  looks 
and  sturdy  uprightness,  endeared  him  to  the  hardy, 
honest  race  to  which  the  lines  of  Edwin  Waugh, 
though  written  to  a  fiddle-tune  in  the  Lancashire 
Pennines  far  to  the  south,  apply  very  well  : — 

They've  wick  and  warm  at  work  and  play 

Whatever  may  befall ; 
The  primest  breed  o*  English  lads, 

Good  luck  attend  'em  all ! 

Such  reciprocal  respect  and  affection  were  destined 
to  be  a  part  of  the  universal  camaraderie  between 
officers  and  men  which  has  made  the  British  Army 
a  thing  apart  in  history  and  utterly  unconquerable. 

This  young  naturalist  describes  not  only  the  birds 
and  beasts  he  sees,  but  also  the  scenery  of  their 
environment,  sky  and  land  and  sea,  and  all  the 
grace  of  line  and  glory  of  colour.  Here  are  a  few 
brief  excerpts  from  the  series  of  note-books  which  he 
began  in  his  early  boyhood  : 

[1904,  at  Hepplewoodside,  on  his  way  to  a  grouse  drive  with 
his  father.]  There  is  a  sharp  breeze  blowing,  and  the  heather 
gets  blown  up  and  down,  and  looking  down  the  hillside  you 
would  almost  think  you  were  on  the  sea,  for  the  heather,  as 
each  gust  of  wind  comes,  looks  just  like  water  running  along 
the  hillside. 

A  willow  wren  is  calling  in  the  woods  below,  lots  of 
plovers  are  flying  about  in  the  fields  low  down.  A  wren  is 
calling,  and  at  almost  every  step  up  gets  a  meadow  pipit.  Large 
numbers  of  skylarks  are  flying  about,  and  upon  the  hillside  a 
carrion  crow  is  calling.  Two  ravens  are  Hying  over  the  moor, 
high  up ;  they  fly  almost  in  a  line  with  each  other,  when  one 
turns  the  other  does  the  same;  they  keep  about  the  same  distance 
apart  all  the  time.  Suddenly  I  hear  a  buzzing  sound  and  up 
come  the  grouse,  up  they  go  over  the  butts,  bang,  bang,  bang, 
then  some  more.  .  .  . 

Hearing  a  rabbit  squealing,  I  hastened  up  and  saw  a  stoat 
killing  one.  I  ran  to  it,  but  was  too  late,  the  stoat  jumped  off 
and  popped  into  a  drain,  the  rabbit  was  dead.  Looking  round 


. 

M 


f 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  139 

I  saw  a  curious  thing.  Several  rabbits  were  squatting  around 
greatly  frightened.  Just  as  I  looked  up  they  dashed  off  to  their 
holes. 

[1904,  December.]  From  a  bush  near  at  hand  comes  the  call 
of  a  bullfinch,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  out  hops  a  female  not 
five  yards  from  me,  and  bending  down  touches  the  water  with 
her  bill  and  away  .  .  .  presently  there  is  a  buzzing  sound,  and 
a  flock  of  hundreds  of  greenfinches  fly  overhead.  They  swerve 
and  settle  in  a  big  fir  tree,  where  they  all  sit,  facing  the  wind, 
and  calling  noisily,  covering  all  the  topmost  branches.  They 
come  every  evening  to  roost  at  the  same  time,  3'45  P<M«  > 
gradually  they  drop  down  in  small  parties  of  ten  or  eleven  to 
roost  in  the  bushes,  and  after  much  squabbling  and  fluttering  all 
is  quiet,  and  nobody  would  think  that  so  many  small  bodies  were 
slumbering  within  a  few  feet  of  them. 

[1905,  January.]  When  I  wake  up  and  look  out  of  my  window, 
I  see  a  glorious  sky,  every  cloud  is  a  beautiful  orange  pink,  and 
the  sky  a  pure  turquoise  blue.  Although  this  is  very  beautiful, 
yet  it  is  "  the  shepherd's  warning" — soon  the  clouds  change  to 
a  yellowish  pink  and  then  to  a  dark  purplish  blue-grey,  then  all 
this  clears  away,  and  grey  and  white  clouds  are  seen  on  a  blue 
background. 

But  look !  What  is  that  glorious  gleam  of  gold  through  the 
trees  to  the  east  ?  It  is  the  sun  !  Hail !  O  glorious  sun,  rise 
in  all  thy  splendour  ! 

I  set  out  for  a  long  walk  up  the  Kenshaw  Burn  with  my  two 
terriers,  Tiny  and  Peter.  The  air  is  crisp  and  cold,  with  a 
gentle  breeze  blowing,  and  a  hoody  crow  is  sailing  high  above 
us.  Bullfinches  rise  from  the  burn  where  they  have  been 
bathing  and  drinking,  and  sit  preening  themselves  on  the  birch 
trees.  Flocks  of  tits  are  feeding  on  the  seeds  of  the  birch  trees, 
and  hanging  in  all  sorts  of  attitudes.  The  kok-kok-kok  of 
a  grouse  sounds  as  he  blusters  off  from  the  water,  and  a  hen 
pheasant  rises,  a  lesser  redpole  flies  from  the  ground  and  watches 
me,  a  creeper  is  climbing  up  a  tree  calling  "  cheep,  cheep," 
and  the  wrens  are  singing  merrily.  We  found  a  squirrel's 
store-house  in  a  hole  in  a  tree  full  of  acorns.  A  moor  hen  rises 
from  the  water — looking  under  the  root  I  see  a  little  red  beak 
showing  just  above  the  surface  of  the  water.  Three  snipe 
fly  from  a  small  marsh,  and  a  heron  rose  and  flew  slowly  off. 
A  kestrel  is  hovering  above  a  hill  in  the  distance,  changing  his 
position  every  now  and  again,  and  a  herring  gull  is  sailing  over 
the  Coquet  as  we  return.  The  greenfinches  are  collecting  to 
roost  in  the  garden  when  out  flashes  a  Merlin  hawk  from  the 
beech  tree,  throwing  the  finches  into  confusion ;  however,  he 


140     NATURE   WORSHIPPERS 

sees  me  just  as  he  is  about  to  seize  a  victim,  wheels  about,  and 
flies  away. 

[1906,  at  Sandisdyke.]  Saw  a  plover  chasing  a  crow  and 
black-back  gull  away,  and  in  a  ploughed  field  a  male  plover 
swooping  at  a  cock  pheasant  and  hitting  his  tail,  first  he  swooped 
from  one  side  and  then  from  the  other,  and  the  pheasant  had  to 
turn  round  and  face  him  every  time  till  he  (the  pheasant)  got 
tired  and  ran  off  slowly. 

[1906,  August :  Sandisdyke.]  A  whole  brood  of  pied  wagtails 
have  come  to-day  to  feed  on  the  lawn,  or  to  be  fed,  as  the  young 
ones  cannot,  or  will  not,  feed  themselves.  The  father  and 
mother  feed  the  five  hungry  full-grown  birds.  They  take  them 
each,  one  at  a  time,  out  on  the  lawn ;  the  mother  takes  one 
while  the  father  takes  another ;  when  each  has  had  enough  they 
are  sent  back  to  the  roof  where  the  other  youngsters  are  sitting 
and  exchanged  for  others.  When  being  fed  the  young  bird 
follows  the  old  bird  about,  cheeping ;  when  the  old  bird  has  got 
enough  food  (insects)  in  its  beak,  it  runs  to  the  young  one  and 
drops  them  into  its  mouth,  generally  in  two  mouthfuls. 

[1907,  May  :  same  place.]  To-day  I  saw  a  very  funny  bit  of 
bird  life.  A  female  thrush  was  sitting  on  the  lawn,  watching 
for  any  worms  which  might  be  tempted  out  by  the  wet  weather. 
Presently  another  thrush,  a  male,  flew  out  from  the  laurels  and 
settled  beside  her.  She  took  no  notice  of  him,  but  he  took  a 
great  deal  of  her,  and  seemed  to  be  gazing  admiringly  at  her. 
Then  he  began  to  sing.  He  puffed  out  his  feathers  and  poured 
out  his  heart  to  her.  She  replied  by  making  a  half-playful  rush 
at  him,  but  he  returned  again,  and  walked  round  and  round 
singing  to  her.  This  was  not  to  go  on  for  long  ;  for,  with  a 
rush,  a  brown  form  dashed  from  the  laurels  and  made  straight 
for  the  showy  songster.  There  was  a  scuffle,  a  few  screeches, 
and  away  went  the  admirer,  closely  followed  by  the  rightful 
owner  of  the  little  hen.  Soon  the  victor  returned,  and,  mounting 
the  old  beech  tree,  he  sang  the  song  of  victory.  All  this  time 
the  little  hen  had  been  hopping  about  unconcernedly,  perhaps 
she  was  rather  ashamed  of  herself. 

[1910,  Kinghorn.]  I  have  seen  the  sun  set  behind  a  long 
ridge  of  the  Cotswolds  on  a  cold  evening  in  early  November.  I 
stood  at  the  bottom  of  a  valley  and  looked  across.  The  sky  is 
clear  but  for  the  haze  of  a  frost  over  the  horizon,  much  rain  had 
fallen  the  day  before,  and  the  small  stream  in  the  valley  in  front 
was  flooded.  The  water  reflected  the  light  of  the  sky.  Woods 
covered  the  ridge  before  the  sun,  and  they  stood  out  black  and 
sharply  defined  against  the  bright  colour  of  the  sky  behind  ; 
bright  orange  red  lit  up  a  single  cloud  over  the  horizon.  The 


w  < 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  141 

air  was  crisp  and  chilly  and  silent,  except  for  the  calls  of  many 
birds.  The  short  note  of  the  bullfinch  came  from  a  hedge  close 
by,  and  a  wagtail  flew  chirping  over.  Three  tiny  specks  of 
clouds  floated  above  the  horizon  turned  to  golden  atoms  by  the 
sun.  A  railway  ran  before,  and  suddenly  all  the  peace  and  quiet 
was  broken  by  a  train  rushing  by.  I  heard  it  coming.  Gradu- 
ally the  sound  increased  nearer  and  nearer,  and  then  it  was  on 
me  and  gone.  In  the  ploughed  fields  in  front,  heaps  of  bean- 
stalks are  burning,  and  the  smoke  rising  up  in  thin  columns. 
From  the  rookery  in  the  village  comes  the  noisy  clamour  of  the 
rooks  returning  to  roost.  A  thresher  is  buzzing  from  a  home- 
stead close  by,  and  the  throbs  seem  like  the  pulse  of  some  great 
creature.  The  pollard  willow  trunks  are  reflected  clearly  in  the 
placid  waters  of  the  stream,  and  all  is  at  rest  but  man.  On  the 
air  comes  the  rollicking  song  of  a  labourer  returning  home,  and 
I  awoke  from  my  musing. 

These  are  some  of  the  best  living  pictures  of  the 
infinitely  various  countryside  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
they  show  a  power  of  wide  and  yet  minute  observa- 
tion, combined  with  a  gift  of  simple  and  direct  style, 
which  would  have  given  the  writer  fame  equal  to 
that  of  Richard  Jefferies  and  better  earned,  for  the 
latter  was  sometimes  hopelessly  astray  in  his  facts. 

When  war  broke  out,  he  at  once  gave  up  the 
work  that  was  so  much  a  part  of  his  very  being. 
Towards  the  end  of  1 9 1 4  he  received  a  commission 
in  the  Northumberland  Fusiliers,  and  was  soon  pro- 
moted to  captain  in  the  2ist  N.F.  (and  Tyneside 
Scottish).  He  went  to  the  Front  early  in  1916.  His 
letters  from  France  show  that  his  first  and  last 
thought  was  the  welfare  of  his  men,  whose  courage 
and  cheerfulness  are  constantly  being  described  in 
the  most  touching  terms.  "  I  simply  love  them," 
he  writes,  "  and  I  think  they  care  for  me."  He  is 
happy  to  think  he  knows  them  all  individually, 
though  this  intimacy  makes  the  frequent  casualties 
heart-rending  beyond  words — each  fallen  comrade 
seems  a  part  of  himself.  He  notes  their  quaint 


142     NATURE   WORSHIPPERS 

sayings  at  every  turn  of  the  long  day's  work. 
"  Breakfast,  smoke  begins  to  rise,  not  a  shot  is  fired, 
and  the  smell  of  bacon  frying  wafts  from  the  Hun 
trenches.  We  hear  the  Huns  laughing  and  joking ; 
then  a  voice  is  heard.  '  How  are  you  this  morn- 
ing, Jock  ? '  <  All  reet,  how's  yorsell  ? '  '  Well. 
Don't  you  wish  you  was  back  on  the  Quayside, 
Jock  ? '  c  Yes  !  Put  up  your  -  -  head,  then  ! ' 
An  hour  later  the  crack  of  Hun  rifles  is  heard  again. 
A  shell  explodes  thirty  yards  off  and  hits  a  man, 
while  a  barber  is  shaving  somebody  near  where  the 
captain  is  standing.  '  Come  along,'  he  said,  '  we 
shift  into  the  next  bay.'  They  did  so,  and  I  heard 
the  fellow  shaving  say  to  the  other  when  he  jumped 
at  the  next  shell :  c  Keep  your  •  head  still,  or 

I'll  save  the  next  un  the  trouble  of  knocking  ye 
oot.' '  He  has  a  great  respect  for  the  enemy's 
intelligence.  "  The  Hun  is  no  fool,  a  factor  little 
considered  by  our  people,  and  one  they'd  be  wise  to 
learn.  I  learnt  a  lot  in  the  last  fourteen  days,  and 
I  have  great  admiration  for  his  brains  and  discipline." 
He  is  quite  happy  to  be  where  he  is ;  the  hateful, 
the  unthinkable  lot  is  that  of  those  who  ought  to  be 
fighting  and  are  safe  at  home.  Now  and  again  his 
letters,  like  his  brother's,  note  the  presence  of  certain 
birds  or  the  appearance  of  a  landscape.  He  does  not 
scofF  at  "  brass  hats  "  ;  he  remarks  in  one  letter  how 
well  and  how  hard  the  staff  officers  work.  But  he 
says  little  or  nothing  about  his  own  doings,  and  it 
was  from  brother  officers  that  his  father  learnt  the 
gallant  work  in  repelling  an  attack  on  his  trench  a 
few  weeks  before  his  death  (he  was  shot  through 
the  head)  on  July  ist  (a  week  after  his  brother  had 
fallen),  which  caused  him  to  be  recommended  for 
the  Military  Cross. 


HUGH  AND  JOHN  CHARLTON  143 

He  was  killed  in  the  great  attack  at  La  Boisselle 
while  leading  his  company  against  the  third  line  of 
German  trenches,  having  already  assisted  in  taking 
the  first  and  second.  He  had  been  doing  sentry 
duty  that  morning,  so  that  all  his  men  might  have  a 
short  much-needed  rest.  He  was  in  command  of 
the  first  wave,  which  was  composed  of  one  platoon 
from  each  company.  The  Tyneside  Scottish  went 
on  till  they  penetrated  the  fourth  line ;  their  losses 
were  very  heavy.  The  manner  of  his  death  is  best 
told  in  a  letter  written  to  his  father  by  Blacklidge, 
his  orderly : — 

"  You  mention  your  son's  death ;  it  gives  me  much  pain 
when  I  have  got  to  talk  about  it  ;  it  really  was  the  heaviest  blow 
I  have  had  all  my  life,  one  that  I  shall  never  forget.  Your 
son,  sir,  my  late  master,  was  more  like  a  father  to  me  than  a 
master,  and  I  may  tell  you  I  thought  there  was  not  another  man 
in  this  world  like  him.  At  least  I  have  never  come  across  one. 
I  was  with  your  son  when  he  died,  and  if  I  may  never  see  any- 
thing again,  I  saw  one  of  the  bravest  men  that  ever  was.  He 
died  a  hero's  death.  Your  son  dropped  with  his  head  on  my 
knees.  I  spoke  to  him  three  times,  I  got  no  answer,  and  then 
he  just  looked  up  at  me,  and  put  his  hand  down  my  face,  and 
said,  '  Is  that  you,  Joe?'  which  was  the  name  he  called  me  by, 
1  for  God's  sake,  sonny,  push  on,'  and  died  at  that.  I  shall 
avenge  his  death  till  the  last." 

He  was  shot  through  the  brain,  and  it  is  mar- 
vellous that  he  ever  spoke  again.  But  a  miracle 
was  wrought  by  the  devotion  to  his  men  and  the 
sense  of  duty  which  were  his  ruling  ideals. 

Many  other  letters  were  written  by  members  of 
his  company  in  praise  of  this  cool  and  courageous 
officer  who  was  a  father  to  his  men,  and  will  never 
be  forgotten  in  Northumberland. 


PIONEERS,  O  PIONEERS 
I.  ALAN  SEEGER 

Jeune  legionnaire  enthousiaste  et  energique,  aimant  passionnement 
Ja  France.  Engage  volontaire  au  debut  des  hostilites,  a  fait  preuve  au 

cours  de  la  campagne  d'un  entrain  et  d'un  courage  admirables 

Glorieusement  tombe  la  4  Juillet  1916. 

Citation  a  fordre  du  jour  de  la  Division  du  Maroc,  2$  Decembre  1916. 

ALAN  SEEGER  was  one  of  the  many 
young  Americans  who  saw  at  once  that 
their  country  must  sooner  or  later  enter 
the  War  to  fight  for  the  world's  and  its  own 
freedom,  or  else  for  ever  lose  its  place  in  the  van- 
guard of  civilization.  These  were  the  pioneers  of 
the  new  spirituality  which  has  passed,  in  wave 
after  wave  of  other-worldly  illumination,  through 
the  whole  height  and  breadth  of  the  United  States. 
Some  of  them  enlisted  in  the  Canadian  Expeditionary 
Force;  others  in  the  Foreign  Legion  of  France; 
and  a  few,  forgetting  the  ancient  racine  de  la 
rancune  which  so  long  separated  the  two  great 
English-speaking  Powers,  have  fought  and  fallen 
with  the  "Old  Army"  of  Great  Britain  in  the 
early  days  of  a  victorious  forlorn  hope.  In  Alan 
Seeger's  case  a  personal  devotion  to  France  was  the 
immediate,  motive  which  prompted  him  to  enlist  as 
soon  as  the  mobilization  began.  In  a  letter  from  the 
Aisne  trenches  he  explains  the  urgency  of  this 
motive : — 

1  have  talked  with  so  many  of  the  young  volunteers  here. 
Their  case  is  little  known,  even  by  the  French,  yet  altogether 
arresting  and  appealing.  They  are  foreigners  on  whom  the 
outbreak  of  war  laid  no  formal  compulsion.  But  they  had  stood 
on  the  Butte  in  springtime  perhaps,  as  Julian  and  Louise  stood, 
and  looked  out  over  the  myriad  twinkling  lights  of  the  beautiful 
city.  Paris — mystic,  maternal,  personified,  to  whom  they  owed 

144 


ALAN    SEEGER 

(FOREIGN  LEGION  OK  FRANCE) 


ALAN   SEEGER  145 

the  happiest  moments  of  their  lives — Paris  was  in  peril.  Were 
they  not  under  a  moral  obligation,  no  less  binding  than  that  by 
which  their  comrades  were  bound  legally,  to  put  their  breast 
between  her  and  destruction  ?  Without  renouncing  their 
nationality,  they  had  yet  chosen  to  make  their  homes  here 
beyond  any  other  city  in  the  world.  Did  not  the  benefits  and 
blessings  they  had  received  point  them  a  duty  that  heart  and 
conscience  could  not  deny  ? 

The  old  haunts  were  deserted,  Paul  and  Auguste, 
and  all  the  other  good  companions  in  work  and 
play,  were  gone.  Some  day  they  would  return 
with  the  light  of  victory  about  their  heads — not  all, 
but  some.  And  how,  in  that  day  of  garnered 
glory,  could  a  shirker  face  the  inevitable  smiling 
question :  "  And  where  have  you  been  all  the 
time,  and  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  "  Even 
if  not  so  intended,  the  very  question  would  be  a 
reproach.  Moreover,  those  who  joined  the  Foreign 
Legion  were  conscious  that  one  of  the  great  turning- 
points  in  history  had  been  reached,  that  War  had 
once  more  become  the  natural  order  of  things,  that 
every  living  soul  must  in  the  end  take  part  in  the 
long-premeditated  struggle  to  a  decision  between 
men  and  Germans.  So  Alan  Seeger  goes  on  to 
say  in  his  famous  letter : — 

Face  to  face  with  a  situation  like  that  a  man  becomes  reconciled, 
justifies  easily  the  part  he  is  playing,  and  comes  to  understand, 
in  a  universe  where  logic  counts  for  so  little  and  sentiment  and 
the  impulse  of  the  heart  for  so  much,  the  inevitableness  and 
naturalness  of  war.  Suddenly  the  world  is  up  in  arms.  All 
mankind  takes  sides.  The  same  faith  that  made  him  surrender 
himself  to  the  impulses  of  normal  living  and  of  love,  forces  him 
now  to  make  himself  the  instrument  through  which  a  greater 
force  works  out  of  its  inscrutable  ends  through  the  impulses  of 
terror  and  repulsion.  And  with  no  less  a  sense  of  moving  in 
harmony  with  a  universe  where  masses  are  in  continual  conflict 
and  new  combinations  are  engendered  out  of  eternal  collisions, 
he  shoulders  arms  and  marches  forth  with  haste. 


146      PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

Poets  are  prophets  of  to-day,  and  this  sudden 
vision  of  the  meaning  of  the  ordeal  of  battle,  which 
had  come  upon  a  world  at  leisure  and  luxurious, 
would  have  placed  Alan  Seeger  in  the  hierarchy  of 
poets  and  prophets,  even  if  he  had  never  written 
another  line.  But,  as  it  happened,  he  was  a  writer 
of  power  and  distinction,  both  in  verse  and  prose, 
and  so  will  be  remembered  as  an  interpreter  of  the 
new  age  of  decision,  a  confessor  of  its  fresh  spiritu- 
ality, with  Rupert  Brooke  and  Julian  Grenfell 
and  Charles  Sorley  and  the  rest  of  the  Sidneian 
fellowship  of  our  soldier  poets.  Their  poems  are 
star-shells  that  light  up  the  firmament  of  a  century, 
and  none,  not  even  the  great  artists  that  shall  see 
the  world's  passion  in  retrospect,  and  write  of  the 
vanished  storm  "  in  long  carved  line  and  painted 
parable,"  can  ever  displace  them  in  the  re- 
membrance of  mankind.  The  Hosts,  by  Alan 
Seeger,  is  in  its  way  as  memorable  a  vindication 
of  the  necessity  of  war  as  Julian  Grenfell's  Into 
Battle.  In  these  fine  lines  War  is  presented  as 
an  august  process,  of  Nature,  a  cosmical  struggle 
which  is  to  decide  the  issue  between  men  and 
Germans : — 

These  are  the  men  that  are  moved  no  more 

By  the  will  to  traffic  and  grasp  and  store 

And  ring  with  pleasure  and  wealth  and  love 

The  circles  that  self  is  the  center  of ; 

But  they  are  moved  by  the  powers  that  force 

The  sea  forever  to  ebb  and  rise, 

That  hold  Arcturus  in  his  course, 

And  marshal  at  noon  in  tropic  skies 

The  clouds  that  tower  on  some  snow-capped  chain 

And  drift  out  over  the  peopled  plain. 

They  are  big  with  the  beauty  of  cosmic  things. 

Mark  how  their  columns  surge  !     They  seem 

To  follow  the  goddess  with  outspread  wings 

That  points  toward  Glory,  the  soldier's  dream. 


ALAN   SEEGER  147 

With  bayonets  bare  and  flags  unfurled, 
They  scale  the  summits  of  the  world 
And  fade  on  the  farthest  golden  height 
In  fair  horizons  full  of  light. 

He  does  not  sentimentalize  over  his  shattered  corse, 
and  the  terror  and  beauty  of  his  self-sacrifice,  but 
manfully — as  Charles  Sorley  did — accepts  the  iron 
necessity  as  part  of  the  laws  of  Nature  (which  men 
call  duty)  whereby  the  ancient  heavens  are  fresh 
and  strong : — 

Friend  or  foe,  it  shall  matter  nought  j 
This  only  matters,  in  fine  :  we  fought. 
For  we  were  young  and  in  love  or  strife 
Sought  exultation  and  craved  excess : 
To  sound  the  wildest  debauch  in  life 
We  staked  our  youth  and  its  loveliness. 
Let  idlers  argue  the  right  and  wrong 
And  weigh  what  merit  our  causes  had. 
"Putting  our  faith  in  being  strong — 
Above  the  level  of  good  and  bad — 
For  us,  we  battled  and  burned  and  killed 
Because  evolving  Nature  willed, 
And  it  was  our  pride  and  boast  to  be 
The  instruments  of  Destiny. 
There  was  a  stately  drama  writ 
By  the  hand  that  peopled  the  earth  and  air 
And  set  the  stars  in  the  infinite 
And  made  night  gorgeous  and  morning  fair, 
And  all  that  had  sense  to  reason  knew 
That  bloody  drama  must  be  gone  through. 

Alan  Seeger  was  born  in  New  York  on  22nd 
June  1888;  his  father  and  mother  belonged  to  the  old 
New  England  families  which  still  hold  the  spiritual 
leadership  of  the  United  States.  His  childhood 
was  spent  in  Staten  Island  (the  glass  ball  in  the  bottle 
neck  of  the  most  wonderful  harbour  in  the  world), 
whence  he  could  see  all  day  long  the  ships  of  all 
nations  passing  through  the  Narrows,  the  gateway 
of  half  this  planet.  In  the  foreground  Robbins 


148     PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

Reef  Lighthouse,  in  the  middle  distance  the  majestical 
Liberty,  and  in  the  background  the  vast  curves 
of  Brooklyn  Bridge  and  the  colossal  sky-piercing 
buildings  of  new  New  York — nowhere  in  the 
whole  wide  world  is  the  everlasting  business  of 
seafaring  "  lawful  occasions  "  shown  in  so  romantic 
and  spacious  a  setting  !  Alan,  his  brother  and  his 
sister,  knew  the  names  of  all  the  liners  and  warships 
passing  out  of  the  Atlantic  "  lane "  in  a  never- 
ending  procession ;  the  walls  of  their  nursery  were 
covered  with  rude  yet  faithful  drawings  of  the 
shipping  they  watched  in  such  vast  variety.  Had 
he  lived,  to  return  home  with  the  embattled  youth 
of  his  own  land,  he  would  have  made  pictures  of 
the  stirring,  tumultuous  sea-scapes,  of  Staten  Island. 
Toujours  nous  revenons  a  nos  ancle ns  amours ; 
especially  if  we  be  poetic  sons  of  modern  America, 
in  whom  the  inexhaustible  spirit  of  Walt  Whitman 
still  goes  marching  on. 

When  he  was  ten  years  old  his  family  returned 
to  New  York,  where  he  attended  the  Horace  Mann 
School.  The  clangorous  life  of  the  pent  city's  life, 
which  ever  grows  skyward,  entered  into  his  soul ; 
his  greatest  joy  was  to  follow  the  rushing  fire- 
engines  which  are  seen  every  day  in  her  street- 
canons.  In  1900  came  a  new  migration  which 
finally  determined  the  bent  of  his  poetic  gift — 
henceforward,  like  the  sunflower,  his  heart  sought 
the  sun  of  living  and  followed  it  from  rising  to 
setting  and  blossomed  in  sub-tropic  luxuriance. 
His  family  went  to  live  in  Mexico  City,  where 
the  silver  far-listening  peaks  of  Popocatepetl  and 
Ixtaccihuatl  look  down  on  its  vast  amphitheatre 
and  the  gentle,  valiant  shade  of  Montezuma  is  still 
visible  to  the  eyes  of  a  poetic  soul — and  by  its  side 


ALAN    SEEGER  149 

the  armoured  ghost  of  Cortez,  whose  cold  and 
calculated  cruelty  was  a  prototype  of  Teutonic 
frightfulness.  The  two  years  spent  in  the  wonder- 
city,  broken  by  visits  in  the  chilly  winter  season 
to  Cuernavaca  in  the  tierra  templada  below,,  were 
unforgettable  years;  they  opened  in  Alan's  young 
heart  a  well-spring  of  delight  from  within  that 
flooded  all  his  after-days  with  a  romantic  joyousness 
in  which  the  Puritan  in  him  is  overwhelmed.  It 
was,  none  the  less,  a  time  of  keen  and  incessant 
study.  The  children  had  a  tutor  whom  they  loved 
and  respected,  and  their  taste  for  good  literature, 
especially  poetry,  ripened  speedily  under  his  kindly 
and  cultured  influence.  "  One  of  our  keenest 
pleasures,"  wrote  a  member  of  the  family,  "  was 
to  go  in  a  body  to  the  old  book-shops,  and  on 
Sunday  morning  to  the  c  Thieves '  market,  to 
rummage  for  treasures,  and  many  were  the  Elzevirs 
and  worm-eaten,  vellum-bound  volumes  from  the 
old  convent  libraries  that  fell  into  our  hands."  A 
home  magazine  was  brought  out  at  irregular 
intervals ;  it  was  called  The  Prophet,  and  Alan, 
who  was  the  sporting  editor,  soon  made  it  the 
vehicle  of  his  first  essays  in  poetry  and  criticism. 
It  is  a  pity  that  the  copies  of  this  curious  periodical 
were  all  lost  in  the  wreck  of  the  Merida. 

Mexico  gave  Alan  Seeger's  literary  gift  its 
definite  orientation.  Before  he  went  to  Paris,  to 
make  literature  his  vocation,  he  lived  in  many 
other  environments  of  natural  beauty.  He  was 
sent  to  school  at  Tarrytown  at  the  age  of  fourteen 
—to  a  college  with  a  spacious  domain  of  meadow 
and  woodland  set  upon  a  noble  hill  above  the 
Hudson  River,  which  links  together  with  its 
gleaming  flood  many  episodes  of  scenery  that 


150      PIONEERS,   O    PIONEERS 

suggest  amplified  versions  of  the  famous  view  of 
the  Thames  from  Richmond  Hill.  He  spent  one 
of  his  vacations  in  the  green,  glorious  ambuscades 
of  the  New  Hampshire  hills,  and  another  in  that 
Earthly  Paradise  called  Southern  California,  where 
the  habit  of  worry  slips  ofF  of  its  own  accord,  and 
you  can  live  between  sun  and  sea  in  a  sort  of 
spiritual  altogether.  Now  and  again  he  returned 
to  Mexico  for  a  brief  visit;  always  to  find  the 
journey  an  entrancing  experience,  touched  with 
a  keen  emotion  of  home-coming.  There  is  no 
more  delightful  tour  in  the  Western  Hemisphere, 
whether  you  travel  by  land  or  by  sea,  for  the  first 
part  of  the  journey,  from  the  clangorous,  working- 
cities  of  North — and  the  romance  of  days  gone 
by  begins  to  repossess  the  traveller's  soul  as  he 
fares  further:  "  First  to  pass  under  the  pink  walls 
of  Morro  Castle  into  the  wide  lagoon  of  Havana ; 
then  to  cross  the  Spanish  Main  to  Vera  Cruz ; 
then  after  skirting  the  giant  escarpment  of  Orizaba, 
to  crawl  zigzagging  up  the  almost  precipitous  ascent 
that  divides  the  tierra  templada  from  the  tlerra 
fria  ;  and  then  to  speed  through  the  endless  agave- 
fields  of  the  upland  haciendas  to  Mexico  City*and 
home."  The  glowing  colours  of  his  Mexican 
experiences,  unfading  in  fond  retrospect,  were 
always  ready  on  the  mind's  palette  in  the  years 
of  exile  that  followed.  In  1906  he  entered 
Harvard — the  Oxford  of  the  Western  world — and 
served  a  joyous  apprenticeship  not  only  to  Litera- 
ture, but  also  to  the  art  of  living  in  an  atmosphere 
of  eager  youth,  where  discussions  de  omni  scibilt 
never  cease  for  a  moment.  He  was  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  Harvard  Monthly,  and  he  made 
many  deft  translations  from  Dante  and  Ariosto — 


ALAN    SEEGER  151 

all  of  them  touched  with  that  Italianate  fire,  so 
seldom  achieved  by  Northern  scholars,  the  secret 
of  which  he  had  acquired  in  his  lofty  tropical  home. 
Mexico  was  to  him  all  that  the  Italian  enlighten- 
ment, warmth  as  well  as  light,  was  to  the  old 
Elizabethan  poets.  Mexico  had  set  his  imagina- 
tion on  fire  and  intensified  his  dreaming  to 
vision. 

Two  years  of  unhappy  hesitation  at  New  York 
shall  be  passed  over.  Finally,  his  parents  allowed 
him  to  settle  in  Paris,  where  he  lived  as  a  disciple 
of  Henri  Murger  in  cleanly  wantonness,  finding 
innumerable  friends  among  the  artists  and  students 
of  the  Latin  Quarter  and  yet  never  losing  touch 
with  the  more  secret  and  sedate  society  which  is  the 
true,  lasting-ripe  realization  of  French  ideals.  There 
he  toiled  joyously  to  find  himself,  never  allowing  his 
ambition  to  be  blunted  by  self-indulgence;  there  he 
wrote  his  poems  of  Mexico  and  of  Paris,  painting 
either  set  of  impressions  with  the  same  glowing 
palette.  It  is  in  these  poems  that  the  true  story  of 
his  various  lives  is  to  be  read — you  hold  his  heart  in 
your  hand  as  you  read  them. 

Sometimes,  though  seldom,  he  takes  a  story  from 
the  dreadful  history  of  the  Mexican  conquest,  and 
illuminates  it.  As  in  The  Torture  of  Cuauhte- 
moc, a  blank-verse  rendering  of  the  picture  familiar 
to  all  visitors  to  Mexico  City.  The  Aztec  lords  sit 
stripped  of  their  feathered  robes,  in  the  deep  dungeon 
on  short  stone  settles  sloping  to  the  head,  and  under 
their  projecting  feet  are  heaped  the  red  coals.  The 
bearded  Spaniards,  in  darkly  gleaming  armour,  fan 
the  braziers  and  put  the  question :  "  Where  is  the 
gold  hidden  ? "  to  the  silent  sufferers.  But  one  of 
them,  his  chained  feet  lifted  up  and  with  quivering 


15*     PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

lips,  turns  a  look  of  wild  appeal  on  the  King.  But 
the  tortured  King  has  no  mercy  for  the  other's 
young  anguish : — 

He  who  had  seen  his  hopes  made  desolate, 

His  realm  despoiled,  his  early  crown  deprived  him, 

And  watched  while  Pestilence  and  Famine  piled 

His  stricken  people  in  their  reeking  doors, 

Whence  glassy  eyes  looked  out  and  lean  brown  arms 

Stretched  up  to  greet  him  in  one  last  farewell 

As  back  and  forth  he  paced  along  the  streets 

With  words  of  hopeless  comfort — what  was  this 

That  one  should  weaken  now  ?     Fie  weakened  not. 

Whate'er  was  in  his  heart,  he  neither  dealt 

In  pity  nor  in  scorn,  but,  turning  round, 

Met  that  racked  visage  with  his  own  unmoved, 

Bent  on  the  sufferer  his  mild  calm  eyes, 

And  while  the  pangs  smote  sharper,  in  a  voice, 

As  who  would  speak  not  all  in  gentleness 

Nor  all  disdain,  said  :  "  Yes  !   And  am  I  then 

Upon  a  bed  of  roses  ? " 

But  it  is  mostly  the  un-storied  joyousness  of  open-air 
life  in  Mexico  that  draws  the  soul  out  of  him,  so 
that  it  falls  in  happy  tears  of  an  encardined  ecstasy. 
As  in  An  Ode  to  Ant  ares : — 

Star  of  the  South  that  now  through  orient  mist 

At  nightfall  off  Tampico  or  Belize 

Greetest  the  sailor  rising  from  those  seas 

Where  first  in  me,  a  fond  romanticist, 

The  tropic  sunset's  bloom  on  cloudy  piles 

Cast  out  industrious  cares  with  dreams  of  fabulous  isles — 

Thou  lamp  of  the  swart  lover  to  his  tryst, 

O'er  planted  acres  at  the  jungle's. rim 

Reeking  with  orange-flour  and  tuberose, 

Dear  to  his  eyes  thy  ruddy  splendor  glows 

Among  the  palms  where  beauty  waits  for  him; 

Bliss  too  thou  bringest  to  our  greening  North, 

Red  scinrillant  through  cherry-blossom  rifts, 

Herald  of  summer-heat,  and  ail  the  gifts 

And  all  the  joys  a  summer  can  bring  forth 


ALAN    SEEGER  153 

Be  thou  my  star,  for  I  have  made  my  aim 
To  follow  loveliness  till  autumn-strown 
Sunder  the  sinews  of  this  flower-like  frame 
As  rose-leaves  sunder  when  the  bud  is  blown. 

Like  Rupert  Brooke,  he  seeks  beauty  first  and  finds 
truth  by  the  way;  and  if  he  lacks  the  English 
poet's  swift  sympathy  with  the  intent  of  the  old 
Elizabethan  master-pieces  and  power  of  reproducing 
the  various  accents  of  their  young  age,  there  is  per- 
haps a  deeper  colour  and  a  more  thrilling  music  in 
his  slower  and  more  statuesque  verse.  In  his  "Lines 
written  in  a  Volume  of  the  Comtesse  de  Noailles," 
the  fascination  of  Mexico  in  remembrance  brings 
him  heart  to  heart  with  the  passionate  poetess  in 
whom,  as  in  him,  Occident  and  Orient  are  so 
wondrously  commingled : — 

Be  my  companion  under  cool  arcades 

That  frame  some  drowsy  street  and  dazzling  square 

Beyond  whose  flowers  and  palm-tree  promenades 

White  belfries  burn  in  the  blue  tropic  air. 

Lie  near  me  in  dim  forests  where  the  croon 

Of  wood-doves  sounds  and  moss-banked  water  flows, 

Or  musing  late  till  the  midsummer  moon 

Breaks  through  some  ruined  abbey's  empty  rose. 

Sweetest  of  those  to-day  whose  pious  hands 

Tend  the  sequestered  altar  of  Romance, 

Where  fewer  offerings  burn,  and  fewer  kneel, 

Pour  there  your  passionate  beauty  on  my  heart, 

And,  gladdening  such  solitudes,  impart 

How  sweet  the  fellowship  of  those  who  feel ! 

"  Le  Grand  Poete,"  as  the  Vicomte  Melchior  de 
Vogue  called  her  in  an  enduring  epigram  of  criticism, 
is  a  sister-in-art  indeed  of  this  young  American  who 
saw  Paris  in  the  tumultuous  after-glow  of  all  the 
passionate  lovers  that  have  lived  and  died  in  her 
bright  pleasances.  London  and  New  York  become 
mere  shadows  of  a  magnitude,  long  or  lofty  clouds 


154      PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

on  the  soul's  horizon,  as  he  enters  into  the  intimacies 
of  life  in  the  world's  one  mistress  city,  where  pos- 
session is  the  vanishing-point  in  every  vista  :— 

First,  Londoq,  for  its  myriads  ;  for  its  height, 
Manhattan  heaped  in  towering  stalagmite ; 
But  Paris  for  the  smoothness  of  the  paths 
That  lead  the  heart  unto  the  heart's  delight.  .  .  . 

Oh,  go  to  Paris.   ...  In  the  midday  gloom 

Of  some  old  quarter  take  a  little  room 

That  looks  off  over  Paris  and  its  towers 

From  Saint  Gervais  round  to  the  Emperor's  Tomb, — 

So  high  that  you  can  hear  a  mating  dove 
Croon  down  the  chimney  from  the  roof  above, 
See  Notre  Dame  and  know  how  sweet  it  is 
To  wake  between  Our  Lady  and  our  love. 

And  have  a  little  balcony  to  bring 
Fair  plants  to  fill  with  verdure  and  blossoming, 
That  sparrows  seek,  to  feed  from  pretty  hands, 
And  swallows  circle  over  in  the  Spring. 

There  of  an  evening  you  shall  sit  at  ease 
In  the  sweet  month  of  flowering  chestnut-trees, 
There  with  your  little  darling  in  your  arms, 
Your  pretty  dark-eyed  Manon  or  Louise. 

And  looking  out  over  the  domes  and  towers 
That  chime  the  fleeting  quarters  and  the  hours, 
While  the  bright  clouds  banked  eastward  back  of  them 
Blush  in  the  sunset,  pink  as  hawthorn  flowers, 

You  cannot  fail  to  think,  as  I  have  done, 
Some  of  life's  ends  attained,  so  you  be  one 
Who  measures  life's  attainment  by  the  hours 
That  Joy  has  rescued  from  oblivion. 

Yet  even  more  alluring,  he  finds,  is  the  comrade- 
ship of  those  who  seek  eternal  expressions  of 
Beauty  so  fast  fading  in  the  flesh,  that  can  become 
Truth  only  in  the  stubborn,  lifeless,  mediums  of 
the  written  word,  of  paint  and  marble :— 


ALAN    SEEGER  155 

"  Comment  ^  va  !  "     "  Mon  vieux  !  "     "  Mon  cher  !  " 

Friends  greet  and  banter  as  they  pass. 

'Tis  sweet  to  see  among  the  mass  comrades  and  lovers  every- 
where, 

A  law  that's  sane,  a  Love  that's  free,  and  men  of  every  birth 

and  blood 
Allied  in  one  great  brotherhood  of  Art  and  Joy  and  Poverty.  .  .  . 

Yet  it  is  always  in  a  tropical  effulgence  that  he 
sees  Paris — to  him  a  city  of  tense  romance,  the  star 
of  which  is  that  very  star  of  the  South,  the 
passion-pale  and  still  unrequited  Antares. 

By  silvery  waters  in  the  plains  afar 

Glimmers  the  inland  city  like  a  star, 

With  gilded  gates  and  sunny  spires  ablaze, 

And  burnished  domes  half  seen  through  luminous  haze. 

And  so,  rich  in  the  gold  of  youth  that  buys  all 
the  joyousness  of  the  City  of  Light,  he  lived  and 
loved  and  laboured  truly  to  achieve  the  quest  of 
Beauty,  to  catch  and  hold  her  for  ever  in  the 
art  that  is  nearest  of  all  to  the  art  of  living. 
And  his  career,  so  far  and  no  further,  aptly 
illustrates  Coningsby  Dawson's  saying  in  a  conversa- 
tion with  the  chronicler:  "America  is  Britain 
Gallicized."  Long  before  the  storm  broke  in  violet 
thunder  and  a  crimson  deluge  over  the  whole  wide 
world,  he  imagined  the  time  would  come : — 

.  .  .  when  courted  Death  shall  claim  my  limbs  and  find  them 
Laid  in  some  desert  place  alone,  or  where  the  tides 

Of  war's  tumultuous  waves  on  the  wet  sands  behind  them 
Leave  rifts  of  gasping  life  when  their  red  flood  subsides. 

Little  did  he  guess  his  poetry  was  then  prophecy. 
Another  and  very  different  Alan  Seeger  appears  in 
the  war  letters  and  war  poems  he  left  as  his  soldier's 
will  to  a  nation  that  seemed  to  hesitate  at  the  place 
where  the  road  of  progress  and  prosperity  divides — 


156     PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

to  the  right,  the  path  of  honour,  to  the  left,  the 
path  of  dishonour  ending  suddenly  in  an  unseen 
abyss — but  was  in  truth,  as  we  now  know,  girding 
up  its  mighty  loins  for  a  deadlier  struggle  for 
righteousness  than  the  Civil  War.  So  great  a 
democracy  could  but  move  slowly — but,  as  the  sequel 
shall  show,  the  force  thereof  is  oceanic  and  irresist- 
ible as  Atlantic  rollers,  once  it  is  set  in  motion  by 
a  tidal  sense  of  duty.  Alan  Seeger  could  not  see 
this  dread  certainty  when  in  c<  A  Message  to 
America "  he  wielded  a  many-knotted  whip  of 
satire,  telling  his  brooding  compatriots  :— 

You  are  virile,  combative,  stubborn,  hard, 

But  your  honour  ends  with  your  own  back  yard. 

He  enlisted  in  the  Foreign  Legion  and  went 
through  his  training  at  Rouen  and  Toulouse,  learn- 
ing in  six  weeks  what  the  ordinary  recruit,  in  times 
of  peace,  acquires  in  two  years.  The  intensive 
culture  of  soldiers  was  a  problem  solved  almost  at 
once  by  the  keen,  practical  intelligence  of  French- 
men. In  October  1914  he  was  already  marching 
up  to  the  Front  through  the  once  immense  battle- 
field, the  scene  of  the  wonderful  victory  of  the 
Marne,  the  full  significance  of  which  was  not  yet 
generally  realized.  But  the  hopes  which  he  and 
his  fellow-legionaries  cherished  of  a  swift  and 
decisive  war  of  manoeuvre  were  destined  to  dis- 
appointment. Letters  published  in  the  New  York 
Sun  give  vivid  impressions  of  the  monotonous  hard- 
ships of  trench  fighting.  For  the  artillery  it  was 
"  doubtless  very  interesting,"  but  the  men  had  a 
poor  time  of  it  on  their  one  sou  a  day  :— 

The  winter  morning  dawns  with  grey  skies  and  the  hoar 
frost  on  the  fields.  His  feet  are  numb,  his  canteen  frozen,  but 
he  is  not  allowed  to  make  a  fire.  The  winter  night  falls,  with 


ALAN    SEEGER  157 

its  prospect  of  sentry-duty,  and  the  continual  apprehension  of 
the  hurried  call  to  arms  ;  he  is  not  even  permitted  to  light  a 
candle,  but  must  fold  himself  in  his  blanket  and  lie  down 
cramped  in  the  dirty  straw  to  sleep  as  best  he  may.  How 
different  from  the  popular  notion  of  the  evening  campfire,  the 
songs  and  good  cheer. 

Everybody's  chief  thought,  as  the  legionaries 
sat  under  the  orchestral  music  of  the  guns  (always 
dominated  by  the  sharp  metallic  twang  of  the  75), 
was  how  to  supplement  the  regular  ration  with 
small,  necessary  luxuries,  especially  chocolate.  A 
corporal  told  him  that  every  man  in  the  company 
would  gladly  exchange  his  rifle  for  a  pot  of  jam. 
Sentry-duty,  with  its  moments  of  exaltation  at 
moon-rise  or  under  a  sky  full  of  stars,  was  a 
relief  to  what  another  New  Elizabethan  calls  the 
"  organized  boredom  "  of  modern  warfare  : — 

The  sentinel  has  ample  time  for  reflection.  Alone  under 
the  stars,  war  in  its  cosmic  rather  than  its  moral  aspect 
reveals  itself  to  him.  .  .  .  He  thrills  with  the  sense  of  filling 
an  appointed,  necessary  place  in  the  conflict  of  hosts,  and, 
facing  the  enemy's  crest>  above  which  the  Great  Bear  wheels 
upward  to  the  zenith,  he  feels,  with  a  sublimity  of  enthusiasm 
that  he  has  never  before  known,  a  kind  of  companionship  with 
the  stars. 

Compare  with  this  passage  the  lines  of  Into 
Battle,  in  which  Julian  Grenfell  says  of  the 
soldier  : — 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 

The  Dog  Star  and  the  Sisters  Seven 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

In  the  spring  and  summer  following,  the  Legion 
was  moved  about  a  good  deal  from  sector  to  sector 
(as  the  Higher  Command  felt  for  an  opportunity 
of  a  profitable  push)  and  his  letters  note  the  vary- 


158     PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

ing  beauties  of  French  scenery.  He  has  long 
since  made  his  peace  with  Death,  for  he  writes 
to  his  mother :  "  Death  is  nothing  terrible  after 
all.  It  may  mean  something  even  more  wonderful 
than  life.  It  cannot  possibly  mean  anything  worse 
to  the  good  soldier."  Two  months'  rest  enabled 
him  to  realize  more  keenly  the  unexampled 
nobility  of  France's  gigantic  effort  for  victory. 
He  took  part  in  the  great  offensive  in  Champagne, 
which  demonstrated  the  superiority  of  French 
moral  and  technique,  but  failed  in  its  larger  aim 
of  breaking  the  German  line  and  dissolving  the 
deadlock  of  trench  warfare.  The  indecisive  victory 
deepens  his  admiration  for  the  pollu  :— 

If  we  did  not  entirely  succeed,  it  was  not  the  fault  of  the 
French  soldier.  He  is  a  better  man,  man  for  man,  than  the 
German.  Anyone  who  had  seen  the  charge  of  the  Marsouins 
at  Souain  would  acknowledge  it.  Never  was  anything  more 
magnificent.  I  remember  a  captain,  badly  wounded  in  the  leg, 
as  he  passed  us,  borne  back  on  a  litter  by  four  German 
prisoners.  He  asked  us  what  regiment  we  were,  and  when 
we  told  him,  he  cried  "  Vive  la  Legion,"  and  kept  repeating 
"Nous  les  avons  en.  Nous  les  avons  en."  He  was  suffering, 
but,  oblivious  of  his  wound,  was  still  fired  with  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  assault  and  all  radiant  with  victory.  What 
a  contrast  with  the  German  wounded  on  whose  faces  was 
nothing  but  terror  and  despair.  What  is  the  stimulus  in 
their  slogans  of  "  Gott  mit  uns"  and  "  FUr  Konig  und  Vater- 
land"  beside  that  of  men  really  fighting  in  defence  of  their 
country  ?  Whatever  be  the  force  in  international  conflicts  of 
having  justice  and  all  the  principles  of  personal  morality  on 
one's  side,  it  at  least  gives  the  French  soldier  a  strength  that's 
like  the  strength  of  ten  against  an  adversary  whose  weapon  is 
only  brute  violence.  It  is  inconceivable  that  a  Frenchman, 
forced  to  yield,  could  behave  as  I  saw  German  prisoners 
behave,  trembling,  on  their  knees,  for  all  the  world  like 
criminals  at  length  overpowered  and  brought  to  justice.  Such 
men  have  to  be  driven  to  the  assault,  or  intoxicated.  But  the 
Frenchman  who  goes  up  is  possessed  with  a  passion  beside 
which  any  of  the  other  forms  of  experience  that  are  reckoned 
to  make  life  worth  while  seem  pale  in  comparison. 


ALAN   SEEGER  159 

After  Champagne  his  regiment  was  sent  to  the 
reserve  line  and  did  not  return  to  the  Front  until 
May  of  the  following  year.  Part  of  the  interven- 
ing period  he  spent  in  hospital  owing  to  an  attack 
of  bronchitis.  When  after  two  months'  conge  de 
convalescence,  he  relieved  the  monotony  of  inaction 
by  going  out  scouting  after  guard,  though  such 
one-man  adventures  were  strictly  forbidden.  In 
the  course  of  the  first  of  these  expeditions  he 
discovered  a  burnt  rocket-stick  planted  in  the 
ground,  having  a  bit  of  the  Berliner  Tageblatt 
stuck  in  the  top,  to  serve  as  a  guide  to  Boche 
raiding  parties  and  (perhaps)  as  a  range  measure- 
ment. On  another  occasion  he  went  as  far  as  the 
German  wire,  where  he  left  a  card,  to  show  he 
had  called.  "  It  was  thrilling  work,"  he  wrote 
to  his  marraine,  Mrs  Weeks,  "  courting  destruction 
with  taunts,  with  invitations,"  as  Whitman  would 
say.  The  "horse-sense"  or  open-air  intelligence 
of  the  American  youth  comes  out  well  in  these 
and  other  perilous  episodes. 

He  had  hoped  to  have  been  in  Paris  on  Decora- 
tion Day  (May  3Oth)  to  read  his  Ode  in  Memory 
of  the  American  Volunteers  Fallen  for  France 
before  the  statues  of  Washington  and  La  Fayette. 
The  poem  had  been  written  at  the  request  of 
a  Committee  of  American  residents.  But  his 
permission  did  not  arrive  in  time.  On  June  24th 
he  writes  to  his  marraine,  giving  an  account  of 
the  hardest  march  he  had  ever  had  .  .  .  "20 
kilometres  through  the  blazing  sun  and  in  a  cloud 
of  dust.  Something  around  30  kilogrammes  on 
the  back."  Half  of  the  men  fell  out  on  the 
way,  but  he  managed  to  get  in  at  the  finish.  This 
forced  marching  was  an  omen  of  the  imminence 


160     PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

of  the  great  Somme  advance.  On  July  4th,  the 
Legion  was  ordered  to  clear  the  enemy  out  of  the 
village  of  Belloy-en-Santerre.  Alan  Seeger  was 
in  the  first  wave,  and  his  company  were  all  but 
wiped  out  by  the  enfilading  fire  of  six  hidden 
machine-guns.  He  himself  went  down,  wounded 
in  several  places.  As  the  successive  waves  came 
by  he  cheered  them  on  and  sang  an  English 
marching-song. 

His  few  gallant  war  poems  are  full  of  the  far 
thunder  of  great  battles;  the  vast  war  sighs  in 
them  as  the  sea  in  a  shell  :— 

Rumours,  reverberant,  indistinct,  remote, 

Borne  from  red  fields  whose  martial  names  have  won 

The  power  to  thrill  like  a  far  trumpet-note, — 
Vic,  Vailly,  Soupir,  Hurtelise,  Craonne  .   .  . 

The  last  line  shows  a  Miltonic  sense  of  the  music 
abiding  in  place-names — the  jewels  of  sound,  echoes 
of  history  caught  and  imprisoned  for  ever,  which 
glitter  and  glimmer  everywhere  in  the  map  of 
France.  In  Champagne,  1914-15,  of  which 
the  Matin  gave  a  translation  with  the  comment, 
"  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  would  have  signed  it,"  he 
celebrates  the  noble  deeds  of  the  French  soldier  in 
the  sunny  chalk-fields  that  drank  his  bright  blood 
so  eagerly  and  hopes  for  a  like  immortality  : — 

I  love  to  think  that  if  my  blood  should  be 
So  privileged  to  sink  where  his  has  sunk, 

I  shall  not  pass  from  Earth  entirely, 

But  when  the  banquet  rings,  when  healths  are  drunk, 

And  faces  that  the  joys  of  living  fill 

Glow  radiant  with  laughter  and  good  cheer, 

In  beaming  cups  some  spark  of  me  shall  still 
Brim  towards  the  lips  that  once  I  held  so  dear. 


ALAN    SEEGER  161 

So  shall  one  coveting  no  higher  plane 

Than  nature  clothes  in  colour  and  flesh  and  tone 

Even  from  the  grave  put  upward  to  attain 

The  dreams  youth  cherished   and   missed   and  might 
have  known. 

In  Maktoob  he  commemorates  the  death  of  an 
Arab  in  that  Legion,  which  draws  together  the 
true  lovers  of  France  from  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  world,  and  tells  us  how  he  wrought  out  of  a 
splinter  of  the  shell  that  killed  him  a  smooth  and 
bright  ring  to  bear  the  legend  of  soldierly  fatalism. 
..."  Maktoob,  It  is  written."  But  his  own  epitaph 
is  best  expressed  in  the  last  strophe  of  the  Ode, 
a  noble  piece  of  poetical  architecture  built  in  two 
days,  which  other  lips  than  his  shall  some  day  read, 
before  the  statues  named  above,  in  honour  of  France 
and  all  who  came  from  afar  to  help  her  in  the 
valleys  of  decision  : — 

She  checked  each  onset,  arduous  to  stem — 

Foiled  and  frustrated  them — 

On  those  red  fields  where  blow  with  furious  blow 

Was  countered,  whether  the  gigantic  fray 

Rolled  by  the  Meuse  or  at  the  Bois  Sabot, 

Accents  of  ours  were  in  the  fierce  melee  ; 

And  on  those  furthest  rims  of  hallowed  ground 

Where  the  forlorn,  the  gallant  charge  expires, 

When  the  slain  bugler  has  long  ceased  to  sound, 

And  on  the  tangled  wires 

The  last  wild  rally  staggers,  crumbles,  stops, 

Withered  beneath  the  shrapnel's  iron  showers': — 

Now  heaven  be  thanked,  we  gave  a  few  brave  drops  ; 

Now  heaven  be  thanked,  a  few  brave  drops  were  ours. 


162     PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 


II.  HARRY  BUTTERS 

LOVE  of  France  drew  Alan  Seeger  into  the 
War.      But  it  was  love  of  England  which 
brought     Harry     Butters    from     his     busy, 
joyous  home  in   California  to  lay  down  his  life  for 
a  cause  not  then  his  country's  own — the  cause,  as 
he  saw  it  as  soon  as  ever  the  War  began,  of  the 
honour  of  humanity  and  all  that  can  be  truly  called 
civilization.      California  is  at  the  world's  end  to  the 
average    Englishman ;     at    most    it    is    for    him    a 
fragment  of  the  unreal  estate  of  manly-adventurous 
authors  where,  in  the  intervals  of  the  pistol's  festive 
popping,    the    "  Forty-niner"    heaps    gold-bearing 
gravel   into   his   rocket   and   Clementine   drives  her 
ducklings    to    the    river    every    morning.      Yet — as 
readers  of  Gertrude  Atherton's   novels  know  very 
well — the    Englishman    is    better    understood    and 
more  popular  in  California  than  in  any  other  state ; 
the  Californian  magnate  likes  to  send  his  son  to  an 
English   school    and   does  not  "  raise   hell "   if  his 
daughters  get  engaged  to  one  of  her  brother's  school 
chums — provided,  of  course,  he  does  not  belong  to 
the    ignoble    order    of    remittance    men.     Why    it 
should  be  so  is  hard  to  say.      Perhaps  it  is  because 
enough  of  the  hasta  manana  tradition  survives  from 
the  days  when  California  was  a  Spanish  Colony  to 
serve  as  a  bond  of  sympathy  with  the  easy-going 
islander  who  is  never  in  a  hurry  and  a  flurry  and  a 
skurry.      Perhaps  it  is  because  the  English  younger 
son  played  such  a  great  part  in  the  building-up  of 
that  Earthly  Paradise  in  the  early  fifties,  when  the 
voyage    from     England     round     Cape    Horn    was 
cheaper     (both    in    blood     and    money)    and    more 
expeditious  than  travelling  from  the  Eastern  States 


HARRY    BUTTERS 

(LIEUTENANT,  ROYAL  FIELD  ARTILLERY) 

A  rrival  at  Stoiv-on-the-  Jl  'old 


HARRY    BUTTERS  163 

by  the  overland  route.  Perhaps  it  is  because  the 
California!!,  like  the  Englishman,  lives  in  one  of 
the  world's  wise  garden-lands  and  so  has  a  secret 
conviction  that  the  art  of  living  is  of  more  conse- 
quence, all  said  and  done,  than  the  science  of 
money-making.  All  three  reasons  were  suggested 
by  Bret  Harte  in  a  conversation  I  had  with  him 
nearly  thirty  years  ago. 

Harry  Butters  was  the  only  son  of  the  late 
Henry  Butters  of  Alta  Vista,  San  Francisco,  who 
had  large  interests  in  Californian  mines  and 
railways.  "  His  father,  so  far  as  one  can  reconstruct 
that  striking  personality,"  says  his  biographer, 
"  was  a  big  man,  nervous,  moody,  taciturn ;  with 
the  modern  American's  capacity  for  great  business 
schemes;  an  astonishing  executive  ability;  a  com- 
pelling eloquence."  Recognizing  the  unexploited 
possibilities  of  the  fertile  plain  of  the  Sacramento, 
a  domain  as  large  as  the  whole  of  Ireland,  he  had, 
in  a  few  months,  with  characteristic  vigour  and 
far-sightedness,  conceived  and  launched  the  great 
scheme  of  development  now  in  full  working  order 
under  the  style  of  the  Northern  Electric  Railway. 
Into  this  far-reaching  plan  for  realizing  the  latent 
assets  of  an  economic  principality  he  put  most  of 
his  resources  and  all  his  heart.  Had  the  tremendous 
catastrophe  of  1906,  the  San  Francisco  earthquake, 
never  occurred  or  been  delayed  for  a  year  or  two, 
had  his  health  been  able  to  stand  the  strain  of  the 
period  of  unforeseen  disaster,  his  might  have  become 
one  of  the  greatest  fortunes  in  America  .  .  .  how 
often  in  American  history  (real  history,  not  that  to 
which  politicians  put  their  names)  has  such  an 
accumulation  of  financial  power  gathered  swiftly 
in  the  Far  West  and  then  travelled,  like  a  storm- 


1 64     PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

cloud,  to  darken  and  disturb  the  atmosphere  of 
down-East  finance !  But  the  fine  mechanism  of 
his  will-power  weakened  under  the  tremendous 
strain  and  in  the  end  was  wrecked — to  the  great 
sorrow  of  the  boy,  for  whom  his  father's  well-being 
was  as  the  sun  in  the  sky.  "  They  were  more  than 
father  and  son  .  .  .  they  were  mutually  enraptured 
friends."  Many  racial  strains  mingled  in  the  boy's 
being.  He  was  of  New  England  descent  on  both 
sides,  but  he  had  English,  Scotch,  Irish,  and  French 
blood  in  his  veins — the  French  ancestor  came  over 
with  La  Fayette  to  fight  for  American  Independence, 
so  that  his  death  in  France  was  in  a  sense  the  repay- 
ment of  an  ancient  debt.  Then  there  are  the 
formative  vicissitudes  of  travel  to  be  considered  in 
the  construction  of  his  complex  personal  equation. 
In  his  first  ten  years  of  life  he  was  taken  twice  to 
South  Africa,  five  times  to  Europe,  English 
memories  were  part  of  the  very  stuff  of  his  childhood 
— the  old-world  quiet  of  Kensington  Gardens,  the 
formal  wilderness  called  Hampstead  Heath,  calm 
reaches  of  the  Thames  where  he  had  his  own  boat, 
his  wonderful  father  driving  a  four-in-hand  on 
English  highways  and  teaching  him  how  to  hold 
and  manage  the  reins.  And,  above  all  and  before 
all,  the  year  (1906-7)  he  spent  at  Beaumont  School 
near  Windsor,  where  he  was  taught  the  true  mean- 
ing of  his  Catholicism,  learning  from  his  much-loved 
"  Father  Tim "  that  all  good  things,  wealth  and 
health,  and  the  rest  of  it,  are  less  than  nothing  in  the 
end,  if  they  be  not  held  in  trust,  and  that  life  on  earth 
is  but  the  beginning  of  man's  voyage  in  the  vast 
ocean  of  the  Divine.  Like  his  father,  he  combined 
the  idealist  and  the  realist  in  his  being — without 
any  trace,  however,  of  the  father's  moodiness, 


HARRY    BUTTERS  165 

which  was  the  sign,  it  may  be,  of  the  imperfect 
blending  of  opposite  elements.  What  was  person- 
ality in  the  father,  had  ripened  into  character  in  the 
son ;  a  deeper  seriousness,  a  firmer  grip  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  living,  inspired  the  latter  with  the  spirit 
of  self-sacrifice. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  charming  child ;  starry- 
eyed,  frank,  vigorous,  with  the  vivid  charm,  inde- 
finable yet  definitely  felt,  which  is  called  magnetism. 
But  he  would  have  been  set  in  the  category  of 
spoilt  darlings  in  Old  England  or  even  New 
England — a  world  of  sunshine,  constant  change, 
luxury,  the  devotion  of  both  parents,  and  the  affec- 
tion of  big  and  little  half-sisters  and  half-brothers 
had  bred  in  him  that  tumultuous  egoism,  which  has 
been  the  ruin  of  so  many  sons  of  American  million- 
aires. School  in  England  cured  him  of  the  idea 
that  he  was  a  pivot  of  the  universe.  But  the  swift 
flow  of  youth  (to  give  the  sense  of  a  wise  passage 
in  Sir  Rabindrinath  Tagore's  book  of  reminiscences) 
is  a  guarantee  against  the  evils  of  character  engendered 
in  stagnation,  the  ineradicable  faults  of  an  ingrowing 
selfishness.  As  the  current  of  his  life  widened  and 
deepened,  his  early  errors  were  swept  out  of  sight, 
and  all  could  see  that  the  waters  thereof  were  fresh 
and  sweet  and  that  their  energy  was  unabated  and 
rightly  directed.  But  he  could  not  at  first  under- 
stand the  Beaumont  discipline,  and  on  one  occasion 
ran  away  from  school,  paying  his  father  a  surprise 
visit  at  his  London  office.  His  adored  "  Father 
Tim  "  gives  a  whimsical  account  (in  a  letter  begin- 
ning "Dear  Harry"  and  dated  Easter, -1908)  of  the 
Californian  boy's  rebellious  behaviour  during  his 
first  term : — 

Can  you  imagine  what  it  would  be,  to  break  in  a  four-year-old 


166     PIONEERS,   O   PIONEERS 

colt  which  had  never  previously  had  any  training  or  handling 
whatever  ? 

Have  you  ever  seen  how  a  strong  salmon  struggles,  when  it  is 
landed — to  get  back  to  its  native  waters  ? 

Have  you  ever  noticed  the  endeavours  of  a  wild  bird — 
when  it  is  caught  and  put  in  a  cage? 

Now,  whichever  of  these  examples  appeals  to  you  most,  just 
multiply  it  by  five  and  a  half — and  then  square  it — and  then  see 
if  the  result  is  at  ail  familiar  to  you. 

Speaking  of  your  first  month  in  the  schoolroom,  I  might 
mention  that  hardly  ever  did  your  variations  of  posture  and 
looks  annoy  me  •,  on  the  contrary,  they  amused  me  immensely, 
though  I  may  have  concealed  the  fact,  and  pretended  otherwise. 

Though  the  poor  Master  might  easily  ask  himself  "  what 
next  ? " — when  he  saw  the  American  Cousin  sitting  with  his 
back  to  the  master,  and  both  feet  placed  carefully  on  the  top  of 
the  ink-pots  of  the  desk  behind.  ' 

In  those  early  days  I  never  dreamt  of  making  any  personal 
remark,  or  giving  any  personal  admonition — I  thought  it  better 
to  watch  and  take  stock,  and  contented  myself  with  a  general 
remark,  to  the  effect  that  "it  is  a  good  thing  occasionally — say, 
once  a  day,  for  a  few  minutes — to  look  straight  in  front  of 
one  ! " 

After  a  time,  I  found  those  general  remarks  had  their  effect. 
And  what  was  my  joy,  after  a  few  weeks,  to  find  that  but  one 
foot  was  engaged  in  covering  an  ink-pot  ?  My  joy  was  some- 
what diminished,  however,  when  I  noticed  that  one  hand  was 

engaged  in  pinching  a  neighbour,  probably  Thomas ,  and 

the  other  hand,  hard  at  work,  drawing  a  complimentary  caricature 
of  the  Master  !  But  I  must  do  you  justice  and  say — that  the 
expression  on  the  eyes  and  face  at  that  moment,  betokened  the 
most  intense  attention. 

Many  months  have  passed  since,  and  perhaps  the  picture  is 
rather  exaggerated — but  I'm  sure  you  won't  mind. 

It  was  most  edifying  to  see  how  you  buckled  to  the  last  half- 
year,  and  showed  all,  that  the  wild  H.A.B.  need  be  second  to 
none,  if  he  wished.  .  .  . 

There  are  no  shrewder  judges  of  character  than 
English  boys,  and  the  fact  that  Harry  was 
immensely  popular,  despite  his  eccentricities,  at 
Beaumont,  is  the  best  testimonial  one  could  have 
to  the  courage,  generosity,  and  all-round  loveable- 
ness  of  the  highly-strung  little  Californian,  in  whom 


HARRY    BUTTERS  167 

the  true  Elizabethan  exuberance  was  so  manifest. 
Beaumont  set  its  hall-mark  on  him  indelibly.  His 
love  of  the  school  and  loyalty  to  old  school  friends 
increased  as  time  went,  and  the  lesson  he  learnt 
there — to  sacrifice  his  own  delights  in  the  service 
of  humanity  and  for  the  greater  glory  of  God — 
became,  slowly  but  surely,  the  ruling  ideal  of  his 
life.  What  he  would  have  done  for  his  country, 
had  he  lived,  is  one  of  the  questions  worth  asking, 
not  easily  answered.  He  had  inherited  from  his 
father  that  genius  for  handling  reality  which  has 
created  so  many  financial  powers  in  the  United 
States — it  is  not  money,  but  the  power  it  gives, 
which  is  sought  after  by  the  American  multi- 
millionaire. This  at  least  is  certain — had  he  gained 
the  tremendous  power  wielded  by  some  financial 
magnates  in  America,  he  would  have  held  it  as  a 
sacred  trust,  to  be  used  for  the  good  of  the  toiling 
millions  who  had  helped  him  to  accumulate  it. 
He  would  never  have  degenerated  into  one  of  the 
heartless  plutocrats,  scoring  millions  as  points  in  a 
cut-throat  yet  impersonal  game,  who  so  strangely 
resemble  in  their  mentality  the  tyrants  of  the 
Italian  Renaissance.  But  I  myself  think  that  he 
would  have  sought  spiritual  rather  than  material 
power  in  some  way  that  cannot  even  be  guessed  at. 
For  he  was  of  the  very  stuff,  looked  at  in  that 
afterglow  of  all  the  yesterdays  that  is  called 
historic  truth,  out  of  which  the  enraptured  world- 
lings were  wrought  who  achieved  saintship  in  the 
Middle  Ages. 

Between  the  last  of  the  days  of  %  desultory 
education  and  his  entry,  as  a  pioneer  of  the  true, 
valiant  Americanism,  into  the  war,  he  saw  a  great 
deal  more  of  man's  wondrous  life  on  this  wonderful 


168      PIONEERS,    O    PIONEERS 

planet.  And  he  gave  a  signal  proof  of  his  contempt 
for  money — at  any  rate  the  easy  money  that  is  so 
often  worse  than  witch's  gold  to  its  temporary 
possessor — by  refusing,  to  the  consternation  of  the 
lawyers,  the  wealth  conferred  on  him  by  a  will  that 
virtually  disinherited  his  half-brothers  and  half- 
sisters,  leaving  them  dependent  on  his  bounty.  He 
soon  had  a  clear  vision  of  the  large  issues  of  world- 
politics,  and,  seeing  the  futility  of  all  the  talk 
about  "  entangling  alliances "  and  the  folly  of  the 
belief  that  Americans  were  of  a  superior  order  of 
creation  and  destined  to  escape  the  burdens  of  self- 
defence  as  being  a  people  apart,  hoped  that  the  old 
feud  between  America  and  England  would  soon  be 
forgotten  and  forgiven.  The  two  countries,  he 
earnestly  believed,  were  the  trustees  of  democratic 
civilization — the  kind  that  prefers  the  doctrine  of 
history  to  the  dogmas  of  Pacifist  cranks  and  cannot 
believe  that  defencelessness  is  the  cheapest  form  of 
defence.  Had  an  alliance  existed  between  England 
and  America  in  August  1914,  there  would  have 
been  no  German  War — so  he  believed — and  the 
more  we  know  of  the  inner  workings  of  the 
Pan-German  mind  in  the  period  of  incubation,  the 
more  credible  seems  his  belief.  And  when  hostilities 
began,  when  Catholic  Belgium  was  trodden  down 
in  blood  and  mire  by  the  Prussian  jackboot,  he  saw 
his  duty  as  "a  dead-sure  thing"  (as  Hay's  Jim 
Bludso  did),  and  at  once  decided  to  fight  on  the 
side  of  the  Allies.  One  can  imagine  the  consterna- 
tion of  his  Californian  friends  and  relations  at  this 
swift  and  utterly  unexpected  decision.  To  the  vast 
majority  of  Western  Americans  the  war  seemed  as 
remote  and  meaningless  for  them  as  a  dispute  in 
another  planet;  to  the  strong  body  of  a  priori 


HARRY    BUTTERS  169 

Pacifists  it  was  no  better  than  a  fight  between  mad 
dogs.  To  Harry  Butters,  however,  it  was  a  phase 
of  the  unending  struggle  between  right  and  wrong, 
and  no  persuasion  in  the  world  could  have  pre- 
vented him  from  taking  the  cross  to  help  check  the 
aggression  of  a  predatory  race,  which,  like  the 
Albigenses,  had  decided  to  cut  adrift  from  the 
civilisation  of  its  age. 

u  Vivid  "  —the  epithet  so  often  applied  to  Rupert 
Brooke  by  his  friends — defines  the  impression 
created  by  this  young  American  when  he  came 
over  to  serve  in  the  British  Army  and,  in  point 
of  fact,  took  the  War  Office  by  storm.  Mr  J.  L. 
Garvin,  that  inexhaustible  journalist,  so  fine  a  man 
of  letters,  to  whom  his  exuberant  vivacity  naturally 
appealed,  wrote  the  following  fine  appreciation  of 
his  own  brilliant  son's  brilliant  friend,  when  the 
news  of  the  latter' s  death  arrived : — 

When  he  went  back  to  America  he  was  a  young  man  of 
mark,  framed  to  excel  both  in  sport  and  affairs.  He  was  very 
tall,  supple,  active,  frank,  and  comely  of  face,  as  gay  as  he  was 
good-looking.  You  saw  by  a  glance  at  his  hands  that  he  had 
a  born  instinct  for  management  and  technique.  He  had  been  a 
good  deal  at  sea.  He  knew  all  about  horses  and  motor-cars. 
He  was  a  crack  shot  and  a  fine  polo  player.  His  business 
ability  was  shown  as  soon  as  he  took  over  the  management 
of  his  father's  estates.  With  this  practical  talent  that  could 
turn  itself  to  anything  he  had  other  qualities.  One  remembers 
what  a  delightful  level  measuring  glance  he  used  to  give 
suddenly  from  under  his  brows  when  he  had  finished  rolling 
a  cigarette  and  went  on  with  his  keen  questioning  about  men 
and  things.  To  talk  with  him  was  to  receive  a  new  and 
promising  revelation  of  the  mind  of  young  America.  Like  so 
many  of  our  own  young  soldiers  in  their  attitude  towards 
politics,  he  was  not  content  with  either  of  the  old  parties  in  the 
United  States.  He  thought  that  his  own  generation  if  it  was 
earnest  enough  might  make  a  better  hand  both  of  social  problems 
and  world  relations.  He  hoped  to  play  his  part.  Though  he 
always  thought  of  himself  in  a  fine  spirit  as  "  an  American 
citizen,"  he  wanted  the  United  States  to  take  a  full  share  in 


170     PIONEERS,   O   PIONEERS 

the  wider  life  of  the  world,  and  especially  to  work  as  far  as 
possible  for  common  ideals  with  the  whole  English-speaking 
race. 

So  when  the  news  of  the  war  came  to  San  Francisco  he  put 
aside  as  fair  a  prospect  of  wealth,  success,  happiness  and  long 
life  as  could  well  open  before  a  young  man,  and  determined 
to  throw  in  his  lot  with  the  old  country  and  the  Allies  in  the 
fight  for  civilization  against  all  the  armed  might  of  lawless 
iniquity  which  had  flung  itself  on  Belgium. 

The  charm  of  his  conversation,  quite  Listerian 
in  its  bright,  bickering  flow,  was  irresistible.  At 
Beaumont,  they  say,  he  was  always  talking ;  even 
when  reading  a  book  he  would  prattle  to  himself. 
Mr  Winston  Churchill,  that  naughty  Peter  Pan 
of  British  politics,  bore  witness  to  this  entertaining 
gift  in  a  brief,  valedictory  sketch  of  his  character 
and  career  :— 

The  death  in  action  of  this  young  American  gentleman  is  a 
blow  to  the  many  friends  he  had  made  for  himself  in  the  British 
Army.  I  met  him  quite  by  chance  in  his  observation  post  near 
Ploegsteert  and  was  charmed  by  his  extraordinary  fund  of  wit 
and  gaiety.  His  conversation  was  delightful,  full  at  once  of 
fun  and  good  sense  and  continually  lighted  by  original  reflections 
and  captivating  Americanisms.  A  whole  table  could  sit  and 
listen  to  him  with  the  utmost  interest  and  pleasure.  He  was 
a  great  "  character,"  and  had  he  lived  to  enjoy  his  bright  worldly 
prospects  he  could  not  have  failed  to  make  his  mark. 

He  was  a  very  good  soldier  and  competent  artillery  officer, 
very  well  thought  of  by  his  comrades  and  trusted  by  his 
superiors.  He  had  seen  much  service  in  the  front  line,  includ- 
ing the  battle  of  Loos,  and  came  through  unscathed  until  in 
June  last  a  bouquet  of  5.9  shells  destroyed  his  observation  post 
and  stunned  him  with  shell  shock  and  concussion.  Leave  was 
pressed  upon  him,  but  he  could  only  be  induced  to  take  a 
few  days'  rest.  In  little  more  than  a  week  he  was  back  at  the 
front — disdainful  as  ever  of  the  continual  threats  of  death.  And 
thus  quite  simply  he  met  his  fate.  "No,  sir,  I  have  taken  no 
oath  of  allegiance,  but  I'm  just  as  loyal." 

He  was  only  twenty-two  when  he  came  over, 
in  the  early  part  of  1915^0  join  the  British  Army. 
He  was  at  first  gazetted  to  the  Royal  Warwick- 


HARRY    BUTTERS  171 

shire  Regiment,  but  transferred  to  the  Royal  Field 
Artillery,  where  his  genius  for  technical  matters— 
an  heirloom  from  his  father — found  wider  scope. 
He  says  in  one  of  his  letters  from  the  front  that 
he  was  born  to  be  in  the  Artillery.  And  so 
thorough  and  inspiring  was  his  work  that  a  British 
officer,  a  fine  judge  of  all  servitors  of  the  guns, 
thought  there  ought  to  be  an  American  officer  in 
every  battery  !  His  most  intimate  letters  are  full  of 
gunnery  details.  Here,  for  example,  in  a  letter 
to  his  "dearest  Gookie"  (his  sister,  Lucile)  is  a 
vivacious  and  detailed  picture  of  the  Artillery 
officer's  daily  and  nightly  routine : — 

The  interval  has  been  quite  exciting,  the  Bosch  having 
favoured  us  with  three  gas  attacks  on  this  front — the  first  being 
a  false  alarm,  the  second  a  pukka  attack  with  heavy  shell-fire, 
infantry  out  of  the  trenches,  and  all  the  thrills,  and  the  third 
a  small  affair  in  which  he  just  let  off  a  little  that  he  had  left 
over  from  the  main  affair.  I'll  tell  you  about  the  main  show. 

Time — 10.30  P.M. 

Scene — A  tubular  dugout  on  top  of  the  high  hill  overlooking 
the  trenches,  same  being  my  "  O.P."  In  the  centre,  a  table  on 
which  is  spread  an  artillery  map.  Asleep  on  a  bed  in  one 
corner,  an  Officer  (muh  !).  In  the  opposite  corner  a  drowsy 
signaller  is  discovered  at  his  telephone  instrument. 

Voice  over  telephone  —  ABX — ABX  —  ABX  !  Priority 
message  all  batteries.  (Signaller  pricks  up  his  ears  and  listens 
to  the  message.) 

"  A  prisoner  who  deserted  from  the  German  lines  this  after- 
noon has  been  examined  at  Division  Headquarters.  He  states 
that  the  enemy  have  the  whole  front  line  from  ...  to  ... 
dug  in  with  gas  cylinders  and  that  they  are  going  to  let  it  off 
some  time  during  the  night — the  wind  being  now  favourable — 
all  batteries  will  double  sentries  and  stand  by  the  guns — 
S.O.S.  guard  to  be  doubled.  Acknowledge."  D.  A. 

Signaller  (gently  stirring  me). — "Sir — Sir — Gas  alert — 
message  just  came  through.  There's  a  German  prisoner 
captured,  etc.  etc." 

Me — "  All  right,  all  right.  Hell  and  damnation !  Go  and 
call  the  Sergeant  of  the  S.O.S.  Guard." 


172      PIONEERS,   O   PIONEERS 

(I  rolls  out  of  bed  and  puts  on  my  boots.) 

Sergeant  appears  at  the  door. 

"  Turn  out  your  guard  and  working  party  and  I'll  inspect 
their  helmets."     (It  is  done.) 

Telephone — "  XX — xx — xx — xx — xx — 

Signaller.     "  Hello,  hello.     Wanted  on  the  'phone,  sir." 

(I  pick  up  the  'phone.) 

Voice — "  Captain  speaking — They've  just  caught  a  German 
prisoner  " — 

Me  (cutting  in) — "  Yes,  I  got  the  message,  sir." 

Captain — "  All  right,  be  on  the  alert.      Good  night." 

I  roll  a  cigarette  and  sit  down  in  comfort  to  await  the  gas 
signals. 

Telephone—"  XX— XX— XX  !  " 

Signaller—"  Hello,  hello.     Yes.     Wanted,  sir." 

I  pick  up  the  'phone. 

Voice — "  Colonel    speaking — Have    you    got    that    message 
about —  ?  " 

Me   (cutting    in) — "  Yes,    sir,    got   it — waiting  for   the    gas 
now." 

Colonel — All  right — keep  on  the  qui  vive — 
10681  .  .  Harry  Butters  .  .  55 
Good  night !  " 

(I  continue  my  cigarette.) 

Telephone—"  XX— XX— XX— XX  !  " 

Signaller— "  Hello,  hello!     Yes.     Wanted,  sir." 

I  pick  up  the  'phone. 

Voice — "  Adjutant  speaking — They've  just  caught  a  German 
prisoner — " 

Me    (cutting    in) — "  All    right,    I   know    all    about    it — who 
started  this  damned  show  anyway  ? " 

Adjutant — "  All  right — keep  your  shirt  on.     Good  night." 

(I  light  another  cigarette  and  glance  at  the  watch — 12.15.) 

Signaller    (hearing    a   frog   croaking  outside) — "Is   that   the 
gas  horns,  sir  ?  " 

Me— "No." 

Telephone—"  XX— XX— XX— XX  !  " 

Signaller— "  Hello,  hello  !     Yes,  sir.     Wanted,  sir." 

(I  pick  up  the  'phone.) 

Voice — "  Captain    Lucas    speaking — I  just  wanted   to   know 
if  you'd  gotten  a  message  to  be  on — " 

Me  (cutting  in) — "  Yes, — good  night !  " 

(I  resume  my  cigarette.) 

My  cigarette  goes  out. 

I  light  another. 


HARRY    BUTTERS  173 

I  feel  sleepy. 

I  curse  the  Bosch. 

On  second  thought  I  curse  the  telephone. 

Telephone—"  XX— XX— XX— XX  !  " 

Signaller — "  Hello,  hello.  Yes,  sir.  Here,  sir.  Wanted 
sir." 

I  curse  the  'phone  again. 

I  pick  up  the  'phone. 

Voice — "Orderly  Officer  speaking — They've  just  been 
examining  a  Bosch  prisoner  at  Divisional  Headquarters.  He 
says  that — " 

From  the  trenches  come  the  startling  note  of  a  Klaxon  Horn 
— B-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r  !  Br  !  B-r-r-r-r  ! 

Half  a  dozen  machine  guns  open  up  and  are  drowned  in  a 
crash  of  the  opening  German  bombardment. 

Orderly  Officer  (trailing  on) — "  that  the  Germans  have  got — " 

Me — "  All  right,  shut  up.  Here's  your  damn  gas — she's 
turned  loose  on  the  whole  front  and  you'll  have  it  with  you  in  a 
minute  !  I  hope  it  chokes  the  lot  of  you  !  Open  up  your  gun 
fire  there !  " 

Orderly  Officer — "  Hey,  where  is  it  coming  from  ? — How 
fast  is  it  coming  ? — Has  it  reached  you  yet  ? " 

A  high  pitched  hissing  note  advises  me  that  the  Bosch  is 
putting  a  barrage  over  our  heads  behind  the  hill  and  a  minute 
later  the  wires  are  cut  by  the  same. 

Me — "Thank  the  Lord — free  from  the  bloody  telephone 
anyway."  (Singing  out)  "  Get  your  gas  helmets  out  and  put 
'em  on  top  of  your  heads."  (To  the  extra  signallers) — "  Get 
out  and  mend  the  break,  but  don't  take  too  many  chances — 

Enter  Ludlow  (same  chap  who  was  forward  with  me  at  Loos) 
from  Right  Battery  O.P. 

"  Hello,  Ludlow,  your  wires  busted  too — Hooray !  Let's 
get  out  and  see  the  show." 

Which  we  did.  Picked  a  nice  grassy  spot  in  front  of  the 
bridge  and  peeled  our  eyes. 

The  whole  line  of  trenches  curving  around  the  foot  of  the  hill 
and  stretching  away  into  the  distance  is  lit  up  by  the  bursting 
shells  and  the  star  rockets,  and  by  the  light  of  these  we  could 
occasionally  catch  glimpses  of  the  clouds  of  gas  rolling  out  over 
our  lines.  At  the  base  of  the  hill  the  cloud  divides  and  flows 
around  it,  leaving  us  on  an  island  of  blessed  pure  air.  Away 
on  the  right  a  building  bursts  into  flame  and  by  ite  light  every- 
thing shows  up  with  stagey  fire  effect. 

Three  batteries  of  ours  are  shooting  right  over  our  heads, 
and  on  top  of  the  hill  the  shells  are  passing  very  low — each 


174     PIONEERS,   O   PIONEERS 

one  visible,  for  all  the  world  like  a  baby  meteor — and  the  whole 
combine  to  make  a  beautiful,  if  rather  terrible  sight — terrible 
because  it's  none  too  sweet  for  our  poor  damned  infantry  in  the 
front  trenches  where  the  cloud  is  thickest,  and  knowing  that 
they  will  soon  be  charged  by  a  frightened  but  entirely  dangerous 
crowd  of  Bosches  and  always  containing  the  interesting  element 
for  us,  that  if  the  attack  is  really  going  to  amount  to  anything, 
they  will  put  a  heavy  shell  fire  on  our  O.P.'s  as  soon  as  it 
becomes  light  enough  to  observe. 

But  I  didn't  believe  it  would  amount  to  this,  and  it  didn't — 
after  an  hour,  the  shell  fire  commenced  to  let  up,  and  half  an 
hour  later  it  was  all  over  but  the  shouting  ! 

Net  result  next  day — 

Enemy  debouched  from  his  trenches  only  in  spots — casualties 
almost  nix  considering  the  extravagance  of  the  show — but  the 
whole  country  bleached  out  to  a  light  yellow  and  the  lovely 
Springtime  spoiled — which  is  the  Bosch  all  over — no  eyes  for 
the  beauties  of  Nature  at  all.  The  battery  was  gassed,  and  the 
cow  that  gives  my  morning  killed — Strafe  the  Hun  ! 

Boyd  Cable,  or  any  other  of  the  new  war  realists, 
who  are  working  out  the  Kipling  tradition,  would 
not  be  ashamed  to  sign  this  lively  sketch. 

He  is  always  alluding  to  the  "  thundering  good 
luck "  which  has  given  him  so  glorious  an  oppor- 
tunity of  striking  a  blow  for  liberty  and  civilization. 
He  sees  clearly  that  there  is  no  easy  road  to  victory ; 
that  the  goal  of  the  great  adventure  can  only  be 
reached  by  passing  through  many  hells ;  that  the 
"  women's  conferences "  of  well-meaning  peace- 
lovers  will  do  nothing  to  win  a  just  peace,  or, 
rather,  less  than  nothing  since  they  tried  to  weaken 
the  will-to-win  of  the  Allies.  There  are  many 
picturesque  descriptions  of  big  and  little  battles 
in  his  letters,  and  all  are  secretly  inspired  by  a 
joyous  sense  of  camaraderie  and  pride  in  the  incom- 
parable British  soldier  who,  like  himself,  is  pre- 
pared to  see  it  through.  Here  is  the  ending 


HARRY    BUTTERS  175 

of   a    stirring   battle-piece    which     is    too    long    to 
quote  in  full,  unfortunately  : — 

We  pushed  on  across  the  dreadful  strip  of  what  had  been  no  man's 
land  two  days  before,  but  was  ours  now,  at  the  price  numbered  by 
those  silent  figures  (and  the  Kaiser's  receipt  acknowledged  by  the 
proportion  of  dirty  gray  uniforms  among  them) — on  to  the  first 
German  fire  trenches  ;  and  here  the  dead  were  rare,  for  most  of  their 
defenders  had  preferred  to  leave  as  prisoners.  The  loot,  however, 
was  far  more  plentiful  and  the  ground  was  strewn  with  every 
description  of  rifle,  bayonet  and  equipment.  On  across  the  line  of 
support  trenches  and  across  the  last  broad  gap  of  several  hundred 
yards  to  the  reserve  line,  to  find  the  gladdest  and  bravest  sight  that 
ever  gladdened  my  eyes,  for  they  were  occupied  by  the  finest  body 
of  fighting  troops  I  verily  believe  in  all  the  world — the  whole  division 
of  Guards,  12,000  strong,  the  first  pick  of  the  whole  British  army. 
Not  a  man  under  five  feet  ten  inches,  magnificently  disciplined  and 
with  the  unbeaten  traditions  of  five  centuries  behind  them.  They 
had  been  pushed  up  during  the  night  and  were  now  cooking  their 
breakfast ;  in  high  spirits,  clean  and  dry  and  in  the  very  pink  of 
fighting  condition,  their  shining  rifles  with  bayonets  fixed  bristling 
over  the  parapet.  And  our  Divisional  Artillery  were  to  have  the 
honour  of  reinforcing  them  ! 

He  feels  himself,  body  and  soul,  a  part  of  the 
Army  in  which  he  serves.  "  I  think  less  of  myself 
than  I  did,  less  of  the  heights  of  personal  success 
that  I  aspired  to  climb  and  more  of  the  service  that 
they  must  render  in  payment.  For  the  right  to 
live  and  by  virtue  of  which,  only,  can  we  progress." 
Long  before  the  end  his  spirit  had  been  purged  of 
petulancies ;  it  was  naked  and  bright  as  a  sword. 
Humour  and  tenderness  and  high  spirits  irradiate 
his  letters  home  with  light  and  delight  from  within. 
He  joyously  quotes  the  soldier's  new  versions  of  the 
Mother  Goose  rhymes,  such  as  the  inimitable 
quatrain : — 

Every  day  that  passes 

Filling  out  the  year, 
Leaves  the  wicked  Kaiser 

Harder  up  for  beer. 


176      PIONEERS,   O    PIONEERS 

He  warns  his  Gookie  not  to  read  the  war  books 
which  give  the  loathsome  and  disastrous  side  of 
war — an  aspect  that  even  the  soldier  must  avoid 
thinking  over,  if  he  is  to  remain  physically  and 
mentally  fit  for  his  job.  He  enters  into  a  compact 
with  his  dearest  sister  to  look  at  the  moon  at  the 
same  time — and  confesses,  with  playful  sorrow, 
that  the  Moon,  not  so  sad-looking  and  weary 
as  Sidney  saw  her  in  his  famous  sonnet,  had 
inveigled  him  into  a  flirtation.  He  tells  her 
about  a  dream-leave  he  had.  "  Got  away  for  a 
week  and  walked  in  on  you  in  some  dream  castle 
of  home  that  was  a  combination  of  the  Airship 
(Davy's  house)  and  Bunny  Hutch  (Lucile's). 
You  were  on  the  second  story  porch — lovely 
as  a  rose  and  with  the  emotion  of  eighteen 
months'  separation  shining  out  of  your  eyes — and  I 
just  chucked  off  my  gas  helmet  and  belt,  climbed 
up  the  side  of  the  house  and  grabbed  you  in  my 
arms.  It  was  very  sweet."  Censoring  soldiers' 
letters  had  acquainted  him  with  the  meaning  of 
crosses,  so  he  sprinkles  one  of  the  letters  with 
these  symbols  of  kisses  (another  American  officer 
thought  C.Y.K.  a  better  device).  His  breakdown 
through  shell-shock  seems  at  first  a  shocking 
calamity.  But  he  is  consoled  in  realizing  that  it 
is  to  teach  him  the  lesson  of  "  humble  service."  .  .  . 
"  I  reckon  I've  always  had  too  damn  much  vanity 
and  low-down  selfish  ambition  in  my  nature,  and 
the  last  week  has  certainly  served  to  knock  out 
a  large  portion  of  both."  The  "  honourable 
advancement  of  his  soul "  was  now  the  ruling 
ideal  of  the  life  he  lived  to  himself.  He  sorrows 
over  the  death  of  his  friend,  Gerald  Garvin,  but 
sees  in  it  none  the  less  a  great  good  fortune.  And 


HARRY    BUTTERS  177 

he  himself,  when  the  rose  of  his  life  was  wide  open, 
all  his  attributes  unfolded  and  in  full  fragrance, 
met  the  same  illustrious  end  on  the  battle-field. 
Alan  Seeger  and  Harry  Butters  were  the  pioneers 
of  America's  conversion  to  a  sense  of  the  spiritual 
necessity  and  grandeur  of  the  war  against  Germany. 
They  are  sealed  of  the  ghostly  fellowship  of 
Julian  Grenfell  and  Rupert  Brooke,  and  we  can 
never  honour  them  too  much  in  our  national 
remembrance. 


THE  STUDENT  IN  ARMS 

DONALD  HANKEY 

I  have  seen  'with  the  eyes  of  God.  I  have  seen  the  naked  souls  ofmt 
stripped  of  circumstance.  Rank  and  reputation,  'wealth  and  poverty,  know- 
ledge and  ignorance,  manners  and  uncouthhess,  these  I  saw  not.  I  sa<w  the 
naked  souls  of  men.  I  saw  who  were  slaves  and  who  were  free  :  who 
'were  beasts  and  'who  men  :  who  were  contemptible  and  who  honourable. 
I  have  seen  'with  the  eyes  of  God.  I  have  seen  the  vanity  of  the  temporal 
and  the  glory  of  the  eternal.  I  have  despised  comfort  and  honoured  pain. 
I  have  understood  the  victory  of  the  Cross.  0  death,  'where  is  thy  sting  ! 
Nunc  dimittis,  Domine. 

From  A  Book  of  Wisdom  by 
DONALD  HANKEY. 

DONALD     HANKEY     ("A    Student    in 
Arms " )  records  somewhere  that,  when  he 
was  with  the  Army  in  France,  there  came 
to  him  regularly  every  week  from  the  homeland  an 
envelope   containing   a   soft   handkerchief   wrapped 
round  a  sprig  of  lavender  or  verbena.     That  little 
breath  of  fragrance  used  to  bring  with  it  memories 
of  the   deep   quiet   of  old  gardens   and  all    things 
dainty  and  remote  from  the  sordid  business  of  the 
trenches. 

The  war  was  undoubtedly  the  culminating  in- 
fluence in  Hankey's  development.  It  made  of  the 
student  a  man  of  action.  It  put  a  term,  alas,  to  a 
life  that  was  evolving  naturally  into  a  fine  maturity. 
But  it  brought  him  premature  celebrity,  and  because 
the  pious  aura  that  has  posthumously  encompassed 
his  personality  may  have  proved  misleading  to  those 
who  did  not  know  him,  I  wish  to  tender  my  little 
sprig  of  verbena.  For  Hankey,  though  a  Christian 
in  the  word's  best  sense,  was  a  very  human  man. 
But  for  the  war  he  would  have  taken  his  place  in 
all  probability  among  the  better  known  practical 
philosophers  of  his  time.  His  ideals  and  his 

178 


Photo  by  H.  E>  Keresford 

DONALD  HANKEY 
(LIEUTENANT,  ROYAL  WARWICKSHIRE  REGIMENT) 


DONALD    HANKEY  179 

ambitions  were  high  and  well  defined.  He  wished 
to  leave  the  world  better  than  he  found  it,  but  his 
aspirations  in  that  direction  were  both  practical  and 
on  the  grand  scale — that  of  the  true  artist  who 
wishes  to  add  to  the  world's  sum  of  knowledge. 
He  was  the  discoverer  of  new  or  lost  truths  rather 
than  a  teacher  of  known  ones,  a  producer  rather 
than  a  reproducer,  a  genius  as  well  as  a  man  of 
talent.  And  he  did  not  make  the  usual  mistake  of 
thinking  that  genius  cannot  or  need  not  be  trained. 
He  realised  that,  provided  the  divine  spark  was 
there,  it  should  be  assiduously  cultivated.  And  the 
divine  spark  was  there. 

Hankey  set  himself  to  learn  before  attempting 
to  teach,  thereby  following  the  example  of  the 
majority  of  the  world's  men  of  genius.  His 
method  of  doing  so  may  seem  to  the  casual  ob- 
server to  have  been  somewhat  haphazard ;  but,  so 
long  as,  by  having  his  goal  in  sight  all  the  time, 
he  kept  his  general  direction  right,  it  did  not  really 
matter  by  what  particular  road  he  travelled. 

Donald  Hankey  was  born  with  unusual  advan- 
tages in  the  way  of  parentage  and  environment. 
His  father  was  English,  with  Australian  experience  ; 
his  mother  Australian  born.  After  a  childhood 
spent  at  his  home  and  at  a  private  school  close  by, 
in  Brighton,  he  went  to  Rugby  and  left  there  in 
1900  at  the  age  of  sixteen-and-a-half  to  take  a 
Cadetship  at  the  Royal  Military  Academy,  Wool- 
wich. He  chose  a  military  career  chiefly  as  a  result 
of  external  influences — among  them  the  death  in 
South  Africa  of  his  idolized  eldest  brother,  Hugh, 
in  1900 — and  at  the  age  of  twenty  he  was  drafted 
with  the  R.G.A.  to  Mauritius,  where  he  spent  a 
couple  of  years.  He  himself  has  testified  that  this 


i8o     THE   STUDENT    IN    ARMS 

was  the  most  unsatisfactory  part  of  his  life.  The 
place  fascinated  him,  and  it  was  there  he  had  perhaps 
the  most  important  spiritual  experience  of  his  life ; 
but  the  routine  of  garrison  duty,  the  narrow 
confines  of  a  small  mess,  and  the  rather  sedentary 
nature  of  the  work  irked  him  not  a  little.  The 
antics  of  the  subalterns  amused  him,  but  the  rather 
shallow  atmosphere  and  conversation  of  the  mess 
did  not  appeal  to  him.  Moreover,  he  had  a  positive 
dislike  of  heavy  guns ;  at  any  rate  the  technical 
side  of  his  profession  did  not  appeal  to  him.  Re- 
turning home,  owing  to  illness,  he  resigned  his 
commission,  realizing  that  the  time  had  come  for 
him  to  secure  a  different  outlook.  Accordingly,  at 
the  comparatively  mature  age  of  twenty-two,  he 
went  up  to  Oxford.  It  goes  without  saying  that 
Hankey  now  found  himself  in  infinitely  more  con- 
genial surroundings  than  ever  before ;  the  beauty 
and  traditions  of  Oxford  appealed  to  him  intensely. 

He  was  seven  years  younger  than  his  youngest 
brother,  being,  as  he  used  to  put  it,  "  an  after- 
thought on  the  part  of  my  parents,"  and  it  was 
doubtless  due  to  the  fact  of  his  having  been  born 
at  a  time  when  they  had  reached  their  full  mental 
maturity,  and  had  perhaps  passed  the  zenith  of 
mere  physical  robustness — that  in  Donald  Hankey 
the  spiritual  predominated  over  the  bodily  element. 
This  fact  makes  it  easy  to  appreciate  his  foresight 
in  achieving  the  practical  side  of  his  education  before 
attempting  to  advance  the  theoretical.  If  he  had 
gone  to  Oxford  straight  from  school  and  without 
acquiring  any  experience  of  people  and  things,  he 
would  have  become  merely  an  unpractical  idealist, 
a  dreamer. 

While    at    the   University   he    identified    himself 


DONALD    HANKEY  181 

only  with  such  of  the  current  movements  as  were 
potentially  of  real  use  to  him  in  view  of  the  object 
he  had  in  view.  Sociology,  theology  and  all  kin- 
dred subjects  were  naturally  those  that  appealed 
to  him  most,  although  his  interests  were  distinctly 
broad.  He  took  an  active  interest  in  various  kinds 
of  sport,  but  without  allowing  it  in  any  way  to 
become  an  obsession  with  him,  thereby  avoiding 
the  very  common  mistake  of  so  many  of  his  con- 
temporaries in  exalting  above  everything  what  he 
was  wont  to  describe  as  "  Blue- worship."  His 
two  or  three  years'  seniority  to  the  average  under- 
graduate and  the  experience  gained  in  them  were 
undoubtedly  of  the  greatest  use  to  him  in  keeping 
his  values  right,  and  preventing  him  from  being 
unduly  influenced  by  any  of  the  passing  crazes 
and  enthusiasms  which  were  current  in  his  time. 
Nominally,  of  course,  he  was  working  entirely  with 
the  object  of  ultimately  becoming  ordained,  but  as 
time  went  on  it  became  more  and  more  obvious 
that  the  rationalist  tendency  of  his  views  would 
involve  difficulties  in  his  taking  this  step. 

Writing  from  his  experience  of  the  very  diverse 
systems  of  training  at  Woolwich  and  Oxford, 
Hankey  notes  the  essential  difference  in  their  pro- 
ducts. Woolwich  is  Spartan,  utilitarian,  disciplin- 
ary ;  the  aesthetic  is  left  alone.  The  officer  emerges 
a  man  of  practical  interests  and  simple  pleasures, 
unsympathetic  to  the  "isms."  Oxford's  product  is 
the  converse.  Its  freedom  tends  to  vague  ideals, 
unpractical  dreams,  and  ineffective  good-will  to 
one's  humbler  fellow-men.  Hankey  concludes  that 
in  war-time  each  can  learn  from  the  other ;  and 
in  the  days  of  danger,  when  men  feel  in  need  of 
an  articulate  philosophy  of  life  and  death,  Oxford 


182     THE   STUDENT    IN    ARMS 

and  Cambridge  can  give  their  sons  the  power  to 
evolve  one  which  Sandhurst  and  Woolwich  cannot. 

While  at  Oxford  all  Hankey's  vacations  were 
spent  in  social  work,  mainly  in  connection  with 
the  Oxford  and  Bermondsey  mission.  This  work 
he  continued  after  obtaining  his  degree,  though 
it  was  interrupted  for  a  spell  while  he  was  attached 
to  the  Leeds  Clergy  School.  At  this  time  Hankey 
was  specially  interested  in  emigration,  and  was  the 
means  of  sending  a  number  of  lads  from  Bermondsey 
to  Australia.  The  failure  of  some  of  these  to  make 
good  led  him  to  visit  Western  Australia,  and  it 
was  characteristic  of  his  methods  that  he  travelled 
steerage  as  an  emigrant.  The  results  of  his  investi- 
gations, carried  out  for  several  months  under 
precisely  the  conditions  that  a  working  lad  emigrant 
would  encounter,  were  published  in  the  Westminster 
Gazette. 

From  Australia  he  sailed  for  British  East  Africa 
and  paid  a  prolonged  visit  to  a  friend  whose 
administrative  duties  among  the  natives  involved 
almost  complete  isolation  from  European  civilization. 
His  idea  in  taking  this  step  was  to  gain  perspective 
or,  as  he  put  it,  "  to  get  outside,  and  give  himself 
time  to  think  things  over."  He  also  visited  Mada- 
gascar and  revisited  Mauritius  before  returning. 

Although  on  his  return  to  England  he  threw 
himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  organizing  and 
running  of  the  boys'  clubs  and  all  the  other  work 
of  the  Mission,  he  had  no  more  intention  of  making 
that  his  permanent  occupation  than  when  in  the 
Army  he  had  of  keeping  to  soldiering  as  a  profes- 
sion. He  was  destined  for  bigger  things,  and, 
although  perhaps  only  subconsciously,  he  knew  it. 
Hence  the  skilful  mapping  out  of  his  career,  which 


DONALD    HANKEY  183 

was  ideally  planned  to  strengthen  and  develop 
a  naturally  productive  and  latently  powerful 
personality. 

It  is  perhaps  this  very  interesting  portion  of  his 
career  that  has  tended  to  create  a  wrong  impression 
of  the  true  man.  To  those  who  knew  him  there 
was  nothing  about  Donald  of  what  might  be 
described  as  the  aimless  idealist.  His  idealism  and 
spirituality  were  camouflaged  under  a  genial  and 
humorous  personality.  Even  when  he  was  spend- 
ing most  of  his  life  working  in  the  slums  there  was 
no  better  host  on  the  rare  occasions  when  he  enter- 
tained at  his  Club  or  elsewhere,  and  no  one  sur- 
passed him  in  such  matters  as  the  choice  of  a  menu, 
a  vintage,  or  a  cigar.  His  fondness  for  physical 
exercises,  boxing,  running,  and  rambling  over  wide 
open  spaces  like  the  Sussex  Downs  or  the  Vosges 
Mountains  accentuated  the  human  side  of  his 
character.  Incidentally  he  was  quite  a  clever  artist 
and  a  'cello  player  of  more  than  average  amateur 
ability. 

Hankey  confesses  that  in  the  clubs  they  did  not 
seem  to  get  at  grips  with  their  boys.  "  I  think  we 
mystified  them  a  little,"  he  says,  "and  ultimately 
bored  them.  We  were  always  starting  afresh  with 
a  new  generation  and  losing  touch  with  the  older 
ones."  But  he  was  building  better  than  he  knew, 
as  was  afterwards  proved  by  the  devotion  of  his 
old  boys  to  his  memory.  The  war  came.  Hankey 
reconsidered  his  position.  A  commission  was  his 
for  the  asking.  But  he  wanted  to  "  kill  a  German  " 
and  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  working  man,  and 
he  decided  that  by  enlisting  in  the  ranks  he  would 
best  be  able  to  accomplish  both  purposes.  He 
enlisted  in  a  service  battalion  and  was  soon  made 


1 84    THE   STUDENT   IN   ARMS 

a  sergeant.  He  remained  a  sergeant  for  about 
nine  months  with  the  now  dead  officer  whom 
he  has  immortalized  as  "  The  Beloved  Captain  "  as 
his  Section  Commander.  Then,  as  he  naively 
states,  "for  reasons  which  only  concern  myself, 
I  descended  with  a  bump  to  the  rank  of  private, 
and  was  transferred  to  a  different  Company."  It 
was  of  course  his  desire  to  study  human  nature 
at  close  range  that  made  him  give  up  his  stripes, 
just  as  it  was  the  reason  for  one  or  two  other 
apparently  eccentric  actions  previously.  About 
this  time,  or  a  little  later,  he  wrote  to  his  brother, 
Sir  Maurice  Hankey,  Secretary  to  the  War  Cabinet, 
a  most  remarkable  letter,  full  of  acute  observation 
and  useful  suggestion  in  regard  to  the  new  armies, 
which  was  read  by  Lord  Kitchener  with  much 
interest.  Within  three  months  of  landing  in  France 
he  was  wounded  and  invalided  home.  He  had 
been  persuaded  to  agree  to  take  up  a  commission 
in  the  Royal  Garrison  Artillery  with  a  view  to 
joining  a  heavy  battery  in  the  field.  The  com- 
mission came  through  when  he  was  in  hospital. 
Probably,  however,  his  old  antipathy  to  the 
guns  had  not  diminished ;  at  any  rate  on  his 
own  initiative  he  exchanged  into  the  Royal 
Warwickshire  Regiment  to  the  same  battalion  as 
that  in  which  his  brother  Hugh  (for  whom  as  a 
boy  he  had  an  immense  admiration  amounting 
almost  to  veneration)  was  serving  when  he  was 
killed  at  Paardeburg.  Before  many  months  he 
himself  was  killed  on  the  Somme  while  leading 
his  men  in  the  attack.  There  had  been  a 
momentary  wavering  among  his  men,  and  he  was 
last  seen  rallying  them  successfully  and  carrying 
them  forward  with  him  to  win  the  trench  which 


DONALD    HANKEY  185 

cost  him  his  life.     His  words  to  the  men  just  before 
they  went  over  the  top,  "  If  wounded,  Blighty— 
if    killed,    the    Resurrection,"    have    now    become 
historic. 

One  returns  from  Hankey  the  soldier  to  Hankey 
the  student.  Death  had  ended  the  career  which 
the  student  had  chosen  for  himself,  and  for  which 
the  whole  of  his  life  had  been  so  carefully  arranged. 
It  is  almost  certain  that  writing  and  not  speech  was 
Hankey's  intended  vehicle  of  expression ;  he  pre- 
ferred the  lasting  glow  of  the  fire  of  literature  to 
the  transient  glamour  of  speech  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  His  reading,  while  necessarily  embrac- 
ing chiefly  works  of  a  theological  and  sociological 
nature,  was  of  a  remarkably  wide  range.  For  his 
friends  he  chose,  perhaps  without  realizing  it,  chiefly 
those  who  could  teach  him  most,  whose  occupations 
kept  them  in  widely  differing  spheres  from  his  own, 
and  with  these  people  he  kept  in  constant  but  not 
in  exaggeratedly  enthusiastic  communication.  A 
favourite  request  of  his  was :  "  Be  sure  to  write 
often,  not  every  day  for  a  week,  nor  every  week 
for  a  month,  but  every  month  for  many  years ! " 
His  own  letters  varied  greatly  in  length,  but  never 
in  inspiration,  owing  to  the  fact  that,  if  he  had 
nothing  to  write,  he  very  rarely  wrote,  and,  in 
consequence,  while  some  of  his  letters  would  run 
to  five  or  six  sheets,  others  might  be  as  short  as 
two  lines  only.  He  used  to  say  that  when  he  sat 
down  to  write,  provided  that  he  had  some  sort  of 
an  idea  of  what  he  wanted  to  say,  his  pen  would 
usually  "  run  away  "  with  him,  and  that  he  found 
it  quite  a  sound  plan  to  allow  it  to  do  so !  Often, 
of  course,  the  results  were  disappointing,  usually 


186     THE    STUDENT   IN    ARMS 

they  were  quite  good,  and  occasionally  they  were 
brilliant.  It  depended  apparently  on  his  mood. 
He  realized  this,  and  was  waiting  and  working 
for  the  time  when  he  should  be  able  freely  to 
produce  good  literature  of  a  wholesomely  unre- 
strained, and  (more  important)  unstrained  kind. 
He  was  quite  content  to  wait  until  he  should  have 
acquired  sufficient  knowledge,  and  sufficient  skill 
in  using  it,  before  making  any  really  ambitious 
attempt  to  apply  it.  He  wished  to  produce  nothing 
mediocre,  and  would  have  waited  until  nothing 
that  he  had  produced  should,  when  finished,  be 
mediocre.  But  in  1914  he  was  not  yet  able  to 
produce  uniformly  good  work,  and  was,  unfortun- 
ately, not  able  to  judge  the  quality  of  what  he  had 
written  until  some  time  after  its  production  ;  he 
found  it  necessary,  as  it  were,  to  place  an  interval 
of  time  between  himself  and  his  work,  just  as  an 
artist  finds  it  necessary,  in  order  to  view  it  in 
better  perspective,  to  stand  back  and  place  an  in- 
terval of  distance  between  himself  and  his  picture. 

Before  the  war  started,  Hankey  had  produced 
nothing  which  was  primarily  intended  for  publi- 
cation in  book  form.  His  first  two  books : 
Religion  and  Common  Sense  —  published  post- 
humously— and,  more  particularly,  The  Lord  oj 
All  Good  Life,  were,  though  it  may  sound  strange 
to  say  so,  written  for  his  own  enlightenment :  before 
starting  on  anything  else,  he  was  anxious  to  place 
his  own  theological  ideas  on  a  sound  logical  basis ; 
consequently,  since  he  had  an  extraordinary  faculty 
for  solving  his  problems  subconsciously,  he  set  to 
work  and  wrote  these  two  books  in  an  incredibly 
short  time,  with  very  little  effort,  no  planning-out, 
and  no  reference  to  notes  or  other  works.  They 


DONALD    HANKEY  187 

constituted  a  revelation  to  him  no  less  than  to  any- 
one else  reading  them  for  the  first  time.  Some  of 
Hankey's  own  remarks  regarding  the  latter  work, 
in  a  letter  of  his  to  his  friend  Allen  of  the  Mission, 
will  show  the  real  purpose  for  which  it  was  written, 
and  how  it  served  that  purpose: — "  ...  It  is 
the  sudden  vision  of  what  lots  of  obscure  things 
really  meant  ...  it  was  written  spontaneously  in 
a  burst,  in  six  weeks  .  .  .  suddenly  everything 
cleared  up.  To  myself  the  writing  of  it  was  an 
illumination.  I  did  not  write  it  because  I  wanted 
to  write  a  book  and  be  an  author.  I  wrote  it 
because  .  .  .  writing  .  .  .  was  to  me  the  natural 
way  of  getting  everything  straight  in  my  own  mind." 
But  perhaps  another  letter  of  Hankey's  referring 
to  this  book,  written  in  March  1915  to  another 
friend  of  his,  and  hitherto  unpublished,  will  best 
describe  his  attitude  towards  current  theology. 

"  .  .  .  My  pet  background  ideas  were  rudely  destroyed  some  years 
ago  and  I  have  since  been  endeavouring  to  readjust  them.  The 
book  is  the  result.  A  well-known  American  Biologist  tells  me  that 
the  result  is  '  in  no  way  repugnant  to  the  scientific  mind,  as  nearly 
all  customary  presentations  of  Christianity  are.'  What  I  have  tried 
to  do  is  to  find  a  background  in  which  I  could  honestly  believe  while 
retaining  an  open  mind  on  scientific  questions,  and  to  build  con- 
structively, and  not  argumentatively  on  that.  There  is  an  answer 
to  a  good  deal  of  scientific  criticism  of  Christianity  implied  in  the 
book,  though  it  is  not  stated  in  that  form  because  I  have  no  quarrel 
with  Science. 

"  For  me  the  bedrock  is  that  I  decline  to  believe  that  what  seems 
to  all  men  to  be  noble  and  admirable  ...  is  not  so. 

"  There  are  a  number  of  scientists  who  refuse  to  admit  the  reality 
in  any  sense  or  degree  of  the  human  will  or  conscience.  They  are 
so  obsessed  with  the  idea  of  necessity  as  shown  in  cause  and  effect 
that  they  refuse  to  admit  that  the  human  mind  is  anything  but  a 
meeting  place  where  various  forces,  or  heredity,  habit,  and  circum- 
stance work  out  their  inevitable  resultant.  These  scientists  do  not 
admit  that  the  fact  of  human  self-consciousness  is  anything  but  an 
accident — moreover,  an  accident  which  has  no  effect  whatever.  They 


i88    THE   STUDENT   IN    ARMS 

say  that  our  consciousness  of  the  struggle  that  takes  place  within  us 
is  of  no  more  effectual  importance  than  the  noise  made  by  a  piece  of 
machinery.  It  is  an  accidental  bye-product.  This  view  has  been 
combated  in  the  scientific  world  by  William  James  and  others.  But 
though  I  cannot  say  that  I  think  that  the  theory  can  be  disproved, 
I  am  equally  convinced  that  it  cannot  be  proved.  And  I  reject  it 
because  it  does  not  give  a  possible  working  philosophy.  If  you  study 
the  religions  and  philosophies  of  the  world  you  will  find  that  all  those 
which  are  logically  complete  attain  their  end  by  denying  the  existence 
of  something  which  appears  to  be  very  real.  Thus  the  Brahmin 
denies  the  existence  of  all  phenomena — of  everything.  The  Buddhist 
denies  the  reality  of  personality.  The  Christian  scientist  denies  the 
reality  of  pain.  And  these  scientific  *  determinists  '  deny  the  reality 
of  the  human  self-consciousness,  will,  etc.  All  these,  in  the  attempt 
to  produce  a  philosophy  which  shall  be  complete  logically,  end  in 
producing  one  which  is  unworkable  and  highly  artificial  practically. 
But  in  other  matters — such  as  electricity — one  has  to  assume  that 
theory  to  be  true  which  works  best  in  practice.  And  so  I  think  that 
one  is  justified  in  the  matter  of  morality  in  assuming  that  human 
self-consciousness  and  will  and  conscience  are  realities,  because  that 
gives  the  best  result  in  practice.  My  scientific  professor  writes  that 
he  has  to  be  '  an  agnostic  with  regard  to  many  ultimate  questions.' 
So  have  I.  And  so,  he  says,  have  most  scientific  men  (which  I  am 
not).  But  I  feel  on  firm  ground  when  I  lay  it  down  that  because 
it  produces  better  results  to  believe  that  one  has  got  will-power — 
however  limited — therefore  it  is  more  likely  that  one  really  has  got 
it  than  that  one  has  not.  This  attitude  is  philosophically  known  as 
'  pragmatism  '  or  '  humanism  '  and  is  quite  respectable  ! 

"  You  will  find  traces  of  this  argument  in  my  chapter  on  the 
Apostles'  Creed—'  Catholic  Teaching.' 

"  After  all,  what  you  and  I  and  our  mates  have  got  to  do  is  to  get 
on  and  make  the  best  of  life  ;  and  you  and  I  ...  know  that  to  make 
the  best  of  life  one  has  got  to  be  free  from  selfishness,  pride,  fear, 
false  ambitions,  and  to  be  kind,  brave  and  pure.  A  philosophy 
which  tells  us  that  life  is  like  a  hurdy-gurdy  with  dancing  marionettes 
who  have  to  dance  to  the  machinery,  is  no  good  to  us.  We  know 
that  such  a  philosophy  will  make  us  bitter,  useless,  unhappy.  It 
is  therefore  untrue  to  facts  as  we  know  them.  It  is  false.  It  is 
disproved.  On  the  other  hand,  a  religion  which  teaches  a  point  of 
view  from  which  all  these  things — love,  purity,  fearlessness,  humility 
— must  necessarily  proceed,  is  one  which  is  going  to  make  us  happy 
and  useful,  so  that  when  we  die  men  will  say  '  the  world  was  the  better 
for  his  life.'  That  religion  is  proved  to  be  in  the  main  true  to  facts 
as  we  know  them,  practically  true,  '  pragmatically  true,'  '  humanly 
true.'  It  is,  isn't  it,  the  religion  we  must  follow — or  try  to  follow. 


DONALD    HANKEY  189 

"  It  does  not  work  in  practice  to  take  a  mechanical  view  of  life. 
No  one  has  the  right  to  say  that  matter  and  energy  are  real,  and 
that  the  soul  is  a  dream. 

'  Ah  ye.s,  ah  yes,  but  how  explain  the  birth 
Of  dreams  of  soul  upon  a  soul-less  earth  ? ' 

A  philosophy  which  denies  the  reality  of  what  seems  the  most  im- 
portant factor,  the  highest  and  noblest  feature  of  life,  has  no  claim 
on  our  allegiance. 

"  But  all  the  same,  mind  you,  let  truth  prevail.  Don't  fight 
against  truth,  don't  defend  Genesis  against  Darwin,  don't  defend  the 
indefensible. 

"  The  real  Christianity  is  not  what  we  have  been  taught  to  think. 
.  .  .  Ultimately,  why  am  I  still  trying  to  be  a  Christian  ?  Because 
of  my  mother,  of  heroic  men  and  women  I  have  known  in  Bermondsey 
and  elsewhere,  who  showed  me  quite  unconsciously  an  ideal  which  I 
recognized  as  being  the  best  thing  I  had  ever  seen  or  heard  of." 

In  a  letter  written  in  January  1916,  after  he 
had  transferred  from  the  R.G.A.  to  his  elder 
brother's  old  regiment,  the  Royal  Warwicks,  he 
describes  the  circumstances  under  which,  rinding 
himself  "  stuck  at  home  as  a  superfluous  S.R.  sub.," 
he  wrote  his  Spectator  articles :  "  However,  having 
kicked  against  the  pricks  and  merely  barked  my 
shins  (I  have  twice  tried  to  return  to  the  ranks  !) 
I  am  now  reconciled  to  staying  here  till  the  big 
push,  when  it  comes,  creates  some  vacancies. 
Meanwhile  I  have  been  perpetrating  weekly 
articles  in  the  Spectator  under  the  nom  dt  plume 
of  '  A  Student  in  Arms,'  and  am  thinking  of 
publishing  the  series  in  volume  form  later  on." 

He  regarded  these  articles  as  mere  casual  efforts, 
but  the  series  is  indisputably  far  more  brilliant  and 
human  than  the  vast  majority  of  similar  war-time 
word-pictures.  Had  he  lived,  he  would  probably 
have  eliminated  the  slight  tendency  to  occasional 
over-sentimentality  of  which  his  few  adverse  critics 
have  sometimes  complained.  His  choice  of  a  pen- 
name,  however,  should  have  shown  them  that  he 


190     THE   STUDENT    IN    ARMS 

still  regarded  himself  as  emphatically  a  student,— 
and  his  work  as  essentially  the  work  of  a  student, 
— and  not  as  a  master  in  either  the  scholastic   or 
the  artistic  sense  of  the  word. 

He  was  thirty-two  when  in  October  1916  his 
life  came  to  an  end.  He  had  achieved  his  ambition 
to  "  leave  the  world  the  better  for  his  life."  And 
war  had  taught  the  student  much.  This  sketch 
may  fitly  close  as  it  opens  with  his  own  words  :— 

"  I  have  seen  the  vanity  of  the  temporal  and 
the  glory  of  the  eternal  ...  I  have  understood 
the  victory  of  the  Cross.  O  death,  where  is  thy 
sting  ?  Nunc  dimittis,  Domine  !  " 

R.  F.  P. 


IVAR   CAMPBELL 

(CAPTAIN,  ARGYLL  AND  SUTHERLAND  HIGHLANDERS) 


THE  HIGHLAND  SOUL 
IV AR  CAMPBELL 

IVAR  CAMPBELL  was  the  only  son  of  Lord 
George  Campbell  and  a  grandson  of  the  eighth 
Duke  of  Argyll,  the  famous  statesman,  and 
he  gathered  up  in  his  fresh  young  personality  all  the 
various  charms  of  his  famous  family.  "  Fair  and 
fause  as  a  Campbell,"  says  the  old  Scots  proverb, 
but  there  was  no  trace  of  the  time-imputed  Machia- 
vellian falsity  in  this  scion  of  a  great  family  which 
seems  to  gain  rather  than  lose  vitality  as  the  genera- 
tions pass.  After  all,  the  proverb  I  was  compelled 
to  quote  is  but  a  scrap  of  historical  criticism  from 
the  supporters  of  a  lost  clause — the  clans  that  could 
not  prevent  the  encirclement  of  the  Highlands  by 
the  creation  of  a  Campbell  "  buffer  state  "  stretching 
across  the  whole  breadth  of  broad  Scotland.  The 
sea  on  three  sides  and  the  Campbells  on  the  fourth 
contained  the  dwindling  power  of  the  Jacobites,  and 
so  the  Hanoverian  succession  was  safely  established 
despite  the  militant  breakaways  of  the  Fifteen 
and  the  Forty-five.  No  wonder  the  Campbells  are 
not  exactly  loved  by  those  who  still  wear  the  white 
rose  in  their  hearts ! 

As  to  the  "fairness"  there  could  be  no  doubt 
at  all  in  Ivar  Campbell's  case.  "  His  face,"  wrote 
Mr  Guy  Ridley,  who  was  his  familiar  friend,  "  was 
of  great  beauty,  with  finely-drawn  features.  There 
was  something  rare  in  the  grace  and  vigour  of  his 
carriage ;  the  impression  he  gave  was  one  of  healthi- 
ness and  virility  of  mind  and  body.  He  was  of  no 
more  than  medium  height,  yet  his  sturdiness,  the 
breadth  of  his  hands  and  wrists,  the  spring  in  his 

191 


192       THE   HIGHLAND    SOUL 

movements,  bore  evidence  of  unusual  strength.  His 
eyes  were  remarkable  not  only  for  their  vitality,  but 
for  their  depth — just  as  those  who  knew  him  best 
could  feel  that  there  was  a  mysterious  depth  of 
character  behind  the  brilliance  of  his  laughter,  which 
set  them  wondering  how  in  the  future  years  it 
would  exert  its  power.  Some  perhaps  suspected  the 
presence  of  the  same  force  and  charm  that  made  his 
grandfather,  the  eighth  Duke  of  Argyll,  the  most 
eloquent  orator  of  his  day." 

But  it  was  his  vivid  youth,  untamable  or  at  any 
rate  untamed,  and  his  keen  and  universal  interest  in 
men  and  books  which  caused  even  the  acquaintance 
of  a  passing  hour  to  remember  him  always.  He 
could  find  something  strange  and  incalculable  in  the 
most  commonplace  of  men  or  women ;  and  he  was 
incapable  of  boring  anybody,  because  nobody  ever 
bored  him.  As  for  his  love  of  literature  (of  which 
his  study  of  Elizabethans  at  Eton  was  the  earliest 
sign),  it  cannot  be  expressed  in  words.  Books  were 
to  him  living,  breathing  creatures,  and  he  knew  them 
passionately. 

Of  his  life  at  Inverary,  at  Eton,  at  Christ  Church, 
in  Hanover,  in  Paris,  and  in  America  no  detailed 
account  need  be  given.  The  hills  and  glens  of 
his  ancestral  home  were  a  perpetual  inspiration, 
and  it  was  the  mightiness  of  the  seasons  in  that 
wondrous  countryside  which  is  the  leitmotiv  of  The 
Marriage  of  Earth  and  Spring,  the  fair  and 
joyous  ode  which  is  the  most  ambitious  of  his 
poetic  achievements : — 

Now  wedded  Earth  puts  on  her  splendid  dress 
Woven  of  sunshine  shot  through  quivering  green  ; 
Now  courting  birds,  to  lure  their  heart's  choice,  preen 
Fine  feather'd  coats 


IVAR    CAMPBELL  193 

And  try  a  thousand  times  their  love-song's  notes  ; 

Now  little  spear-point  fronds  of  flowers  press 
Their  busy  heads 
Through  garden-beds  ; 

And  once  again  climbs  new  sap  up  the  wood, 

Making  the  old  trees  young  with  small  buds'  sheen. 

Now  deathless  souls  peep  'neath  memorial  stones, 

To  prove  their  bodies'  immortality, 

Which  feed  Earth's  wombed  children  with  their  bones. 

Now  God  indeed  perceives  'tis  very  good, 

As  leaning  forward  on  his  throne  he  hears, 
Above  the  constant  shrilling  of  the  spheres, 
Earth  giving  back  to  him  his  minstrelsy. 

He  loved  books,  but  was  no  bookworm ;  all  the 
joys  of  open-air  living  were  his  from  time  to  time, 
and  Mr  Guy  Ridley  and  other  close  friends  believe 
that  he  was  never  happier  than  when  tramping  the 
king's  highway,  pack  on  shoulder  and  the  lilt  of  an 
old,  old  tune  on  his  lips.  "  Walking  is"  a  brave 
thing,"  he  wrote,  "  a  large  thing,  a  dusty  thing,  as 
you  will,  but  like  the  sea  it  touches  heaven."  He 
had  eyes  for  everything  when  tramping  alone  or 
with  a  friend,  and  his  mind  became  a  gallery  of 
impressions  painted  in  undying  colours  of  which  the 
following  description  is  a  charming  example : — 

Along  a  lane  near  Grafton  there  are  more  poppies  than  are  to  be 
found  I  suppose  in  any  other  lane  in  the  English  shires.  From  the 
field  beyond,  hidden  by  a  leafy  beech  hedge  whereon  clamber  and 
sway  wild  roses  and  over  which  elderberry-trees  open  to  the  skies 
flat  flowers  that  are  big  platters  for  the  bees  to  feed  upon,  they  pour 
down  to  the  white  road's  edge  in  a  thousand  scarlet  ranks  ;  and  in 
number  they  are  like  a  great  company  of  cardinals  seated  tier  upon 
tier.  And  the  upper  air  of  Grafton  is  encircled,  as  it  were,  with  larks 
that  hang  like  spiders  from  the  blue,  and  sway,  and  fall  a  little,  and 
climb  again  ladderwise  upon  the  windy  currents.  And  they  do  not 
cease  singing  until  the  sun  has  set. 

(I  read  this  passage  about  the  larks  to  a  famous 
air  fighter,  and  he  said :  "  Why,  he  should  have 
been  in  the  Flying  Corps !  How  he  would  have 


194       THE    HIGHLAND    SOUL 

loved  to  see  the  upper  side  of  cloudland,  with  its 
vast  snow-fields  and  sudden  precipices ! "  It  is 
curious  how  everybody  who  knew  Ivar  Campbell 
felt  sure  that  he  could  have  made  a  success  of  any 
pursuit).  He  was  happy  in  untamed  Northern 
wilds  or  in  the  green  ambuscades  of  our  Southern 
garden-land.  Yet  for  all  that  he  was  happily  at 
home  in  any  city  of  the  soul,  such  as  Venice  or 
Paris.  The  simplicity  of  life  in  Venice  attracted 
him  as  much  as  the  beauty  of  its  monuments  of  a 
glorious  past.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  was  but  a 
guest  of  the  dead  there ;  he  rejoiced  in  his  bright 
vision  of  a  living  joyous  city,  where  the  sonorous 
voices  of  great  bells  (the  signa  of  mediaeval  times), 
the  everlasting  lapping  of  little  waves,  and  the  full- 
throated  laughter  of  children  (Venetian  babies  have 
the  blackbird's  music  in  their  throats)  make  a  harmony 
which  measures  the  flowing  and  ebbing  of  time. 
Paris  also  was  a  child's  town  to  him ;  though  there 
it  was  the  grown-ups  who  seemed  children.  "  Am  I 
not  in  child's  town?"  he  once  wrote  to  Mr  Guy 
Ridley.  "  Where's  the  Punch  and  Judy  show  played 
finer  than  'tis  played  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens— 
or  where  bloom  flowers  with  more  colour  than  there  ? 
where  are  the  girls  prettier  ?  In  child's  town  we 
do  not  frown  when  we  pass  strangers — I  am  dancing 
now — in  the  sun — do  you  hear  me  laughing  ?  "  He 
was  a  well-known  figure  in  Paris  of  the  "  Riv' 
Gauche,"  and  students  and  artists  who  live  and  work 
and  play  there  were  always  glad  to  see  him.  He 
could  easily  distinguish  between  the  sincere  artist 
and  the  clever  charlatan  who  is  so  refreshingly  fre- 
quent on  the  Batte  Montmartre,  that  realistic  Venus- 
berg.  The  former  became  his  intimate  friend ;  the 
latter  remained  for  him  one  of  the  amusing  children 


IVAR   CAMPBELL  195 

who  insisted  on  never  growing  up.  He  loved 
children,  both  old  and  young.  And  he  himself 
never  lost  that  wise  childishness,  which  is  a  dew  of 
mysticism  on  the  flowering  intelligence  and  is,  for 
the  creative  artist,  the  greatest  of  all  spiritual  gifts, 
for  it  enables  you  to  keep  your  soul  fresh  and  fragrant 
and  make  your  life  a  new  creation  daily. 

Many  of  his  friends  in  Paris  were  Americans, 
and  the  interest  he  felt  in  them  made  him  eager  to 
discover  their  amazing  country  for  himself.  So  he 
went  to  Washington  as  honorary  attache  to  the 
British  Embassy  (1912-14),  and  what  America  was 
to  this  child  Columbus  and  what  he  was  to  America 
is  best  told  in  the  following  passages  from  a  letter 
written  to  Mr  Guy  Ridley  (his  pre-ordained  bio- 
grapher) by  Lord  Eustace  Percy  who  was  with  him 
at  Washington : — 

"  What  struck  me  when  Ivar  came  out  to  America  (for  I  had  hardly 
seen  him  for  some  years)  was  the  liveliness  of  his  interest  in  these 
movements.1  He  was  quick  in  seizing  the  point  of  current  Diplomatic 
business,  but  the  international  questions,  I  think,  left  him  rather 
cold.  It  was  the  internal  condition  of  the  country,  especially  on  its 
human  side,  and  particularly,  perhaps,  the  more  radical  syndicalist 
effervescence  in  the  ranks  of  unskilled  and  foreign  labour,  which 
really  interested  him.  Here  his  interest  was  most  catholic.  I 
remember,  for  example,  that  Gerald  Stanley  Lee's  '  Inspired  Million- 
aires '  and  Giovanitti's  revolutionary  '  vers  libres  '  at  one  moment 
held  equal  places  in  his  library  !  I  don't  think  he  ever  looked  at 
things  from  the  political  or  the  statesmen's  point  of  view — he  never 
cared  to  ask  whether  a  given  movement  gave  promise  of  permanence 
or  practical  effect.  It  was  simple  '  humanness  '  that  he  looked  for, 
and  he  naturally  found  it  on  all  sides,  for  the  attraction  of  America 
to  a  man  of  active  mind  is  that  it  provides  a  clear  and  open  field  for 
ideals,  social  experiments,  peculiar  movements,  and  attempts  at 
reform  which  in  older  countries  are  entangled  with  and  obscured  by 
the  dlbris  of  past  efforts.  It  was  remarkable  that  in  all  this  effer- 
vescence, which  has  its  very  comic  side,  Ivar's  strong  sense  of  humour 

1  The  various  Radical  movements  which  had  found  expression  in 
Roosevelt's  Progressive  Campaign  and  in  such  Labour  disturbances  as 
the  Lawrence  strike. 


196       THE   HIGHLAND   SOUL 

was  but  rarely  aroused  by  the  vagaries  of  the  idealists,  though  it 
sparkled  into  life  over  the  sordid  sides  of  American  politics,  of  which 
this  period  furnished  one  or  two  particularly  flagrant  examples. 

He  was  careful  and  accurate  in  his  performance  of 
the  routine  work  of  the  Embassy ;  but,  much  as 
diplomacy  interested  him  on  its  human  side,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  he  would  have  made  a  successful 
diplomatist.  After  his  return  to  England  in  the 
spring  of  1914  (when  few  saw  the  cloud,  no  bigger 
than  a  mailed  fist,  rising  in  the  East)  he  talked  of 
starting  a  book-shop  in  Chelsea.  There  under  the 
peaceful  name  of  John  Cowslip  he  proposed  to  sell 
books  and  drawings  by  modern  artists  and  also 
holly  walking-sticks  polished  like  ivory,  to  be  cut 
by  his  familiar  friend  in  certain  woodlands  they  had 
discovered  in  their  wanderings.  War  he  never 
thought  of  at  all ;  he  loved  his  fellow-creatures  too 
well  not  to  loathe  the  very  idea  of  that  tremendous 
release  of  long-hoarded  hatreds  which,  little  as  he 
dreamed  of  such  a  destiny,  was  to  find  him  an  all- 
engrossing  vocation  and  at  the  same  time  perfect 
his  literary  craftsmanship.  Let  us  look  at  the 
various  writings  he  has  left  before  showing  how 
the  soldier  latent  in  him  (as  in  every  member  of  his 
brilliant  race)  found  expression  in  deeds  and  words 
alike. 

His  poems,  some  of  which  were  published  in 
various  periodicals,  show  a  technique  far  in  advance 
of  what  one  would  expect  from  so  young  and  in- 
frequent a  poet.  He  never  mistakes  prosody  for 
poetry ;  he  never  wastes  words ;  he  never  mistakes 
pose  for  poise ;  he  never  writes  verse  for  the  sake  of 
versifying,  but  only  under  the  stress  of  some 
spiritual  necessity.  Even  his  sonnets  are  not  merely 
exercises  in  the  little  gymnasium,  to  use  Henley's 


IVAR    CAMPBELL  197 

similitude  in  a  conversation  I  had  with  him,  where 
so  many  of  the  Muse's  apprentices  learn  to  get  their 
poetical  muscle  up  and  wear  the  heavy  golden 
fetters  of  difficult  form  as  gracefully  as  may 
be.  The  Elizabethan  note,  modulated  subtly  to 
modernity,  is  clear  in  the  following  poem  entitled 
Love's  Recognition  : — 

Conceive  mine  eyes  a  mirror  :  in  them  gleaming 
Behold  a  picture  of  thine  outward  view — 

Lovelier  fancy  than  young  poet's  dreaming, 
More  splendid  than  the  morn's  resplendent  hue. 

So  canst  thou  see  thy  pattern  in  mine  eyes, 
And  I  in  thine  peruse  thy  deep  soul's  thought, 

And  by  reflection  read  love's  mysteries 

The  magic  of  whose  speech  thy  lips  I  taught. 

And  when  we  hail  love's  recognition  thus, 

Eyes  close  to  eyes,  the  passionate  lips  must  meet 

And  join  in  hushed  communion  marvellous, 
And  soul  speed  forth  companion  soul  to  greet. 

So  shall  we  wander  through  new  realms  of  bliss, 

Two  beating  hearts  made  single  by  that  kiss. 

In  other  poems  he  shows  himself  an  adept  in  the 
distinctly  perilous  device  (among  the  masters  only 
Heredia  can  always  be  sure  of  success)  of  the  final 
line  that  sums  up  all  that  has  gone  before.  For 
example,  this  is  the  last  stanza  of  a  long  ballad  of 
the  wood  Barolelf  where  "  it  is  always  Autumn  and 
the  leaves  fall  from  the  trees  for  ever  and  ever  "  : — 

To  bury  her  they  fall, 

All  her  limbs  to  cover, 
Tenderly  they  fall, 

Every  leaf  a  lover. 

In  a  curious  form,  which  makes  effective  use  of  the 
drone-note  rhyme,  we  get  perhaps  his  condemnation 
of  war,  as  delusion  and  illusion  even  if  it  be 
victorious : — 


198       THE   HIGHLAND    SOUL 

When  in  their  long  lean  ships  the  Greek  host  weighed 
Their  splashing  anchors,  then  they  had  much  joy 
For  lovely  Helen's  sake  to  humble  Troy  .  .  . 
Their  first  deed  was  the  murder  of  a  maid. 

Ten  years  from  their  pleasant  land  they  stayed, 
And  after  ten  years,  had  they  any  joy  ? 
They  had  old  Helen,  and  they  humbled  Troy  : 
Were  they  at  her  lost  loveliness  dismayed  ? 

Thinking  of  their  lost  Youth  were  they  afraid  ? 
Was  Youth  worth  more  than  Helen — Helen  of  Troy  ? 
Was  it  for  this  tired  face  they  had  spent  joy  ? 
For  this  tall,  weary  woman  burnt  a  maid  ? 

When  on  that  quiet  night  the  Greek  host  laid 
Down  their  old  dinted  armour,  had  they  any  joy  ? 

Later  on  he  wrote,  in  a  letter  from  the  trenches,  of  the 
"  organized  boredom "  of  modern  warfare.  A 
monotonous  futility  is  well  indicated,  surely,  in  these 
fourteen  lines  rhymed  on  a  hard  and  a  heavy  sound. 
In  all  this  I  find  an  unfaltering  sense  of  the  appro- 
priate form  and  also,  what  is  rarer  still  in  young 
poets,  a  feeling  for  the  artistic  values  of  the  vowels. 
And,  rarest  of  all  gifts  with  the  apprentices  of 
modern  times,  he  could  sing — as  is  shown  in  these 
two  examples  of  the  tiny  lyric  which  brings  its  own 
music  with  it : — 

i 

Peace,  God's  own  peace, 
This  it  is  I  bring  you 
The  quiet  song  of  sleep, 
Dear  tired  heart,  I  sing  you. 
Dream,  softly  dream, 
Till  solemn  death  shall  find  you, 
With  coronals  of  roses 
Tenderly  to  bind  you. 
Peace  past  understanding, 
Dear  tired  heart,  I  bring  you  ; 
The  quiet  song  of  evening 
Softly  I  sing  you. 


IVAR   CAMPBELL  199 


Once  again,  0  earth, 
Cometh  thy  spring  ; 
Once  again  thy  birth, 
Thy  new  flowering. 
After  winter  dearth 
This  prayer  I  bring, 
God  be  with  thee,  earth, 
In  thy  travailing. 

The  unpublished  prose  pieces  he  left  are  even 
more  interesting  than  his  poems.  Three  essays  in 
criticism  (entitled  John  Cheyne*s  Letters]  attempt 
a  reconciliation  between  his  love  of  the  great 
Victorians  and  his  loving  kindness  for  the  Georgians. 
In  form  these  papers  are  true  essays ;  marked  by  an 
almost  Elian  play  of  fancy,  at  times  rising  to  a 
lyrical  ardour,  and  always  keeping  the  quality  of 
casualness  which  is  characteristic  of  the  born  essayist. 
They  are  marked  by  a  sheer  sincerity ;  he  refuses  to 
sit  at  the  feet  of  any  critical  Gamaliel  or  to  use  the 
official  short-cuts  to  appreciation,  but  makes  up  his 
mind  for  himself  and  utters  his  considered  judgment 
without  fear  or  favour.  The  third  essay  (Oscar 
Wilde  and  True  Beauty]  ends  with  a  tremendous 
onslaught  against  the  false  astheticism  which  was 
epidemic  among  young  men  in  the  last  two  decades 
of  the  nineteenth  century  : — 

If  you  grumble  at  me  and  ask — What,  then,  is  True  Beauty  and 
where  does  it  lie  ? — I  cannot  tell  you.  But  I  can  most  certainly  hint 
at  the  direction.  It  is  not  the  pallid  lily  that  languorously  sways  in 
the  hot-house  air,  but  it  is  the  wild  white  cherry  and  the  golden  gorse 
upon  the  uplands.  It  is  not  strange  perfumes  from  the  East  and 
amorous  soaps  and  salts  that  make  water  of  the  softness  of  velvet  and 
sweeter  than  kisses,  but  it  is  the  wind  laden  with  the  smell  of  wild 
flowers,  and  it  is  the  earth  and  it  is  the  rivers  and  it  is  the  trees.  It 
is  not  delicate  and  frail  and  languid  ;  but  it  is  strong.  It  is  not  easy  ; 
it  is  difficult.  Compare  the  Beauty  Wilde  delighted  in  with  the  great 
Beauty  Browning  knew,  with  the  soaring  spirit  Beauty  was  to  Shelley, 


200       THE    HIGHLAND    SOUL 

with  the  mystical  but  fine  Faith  Beauty  was  to  Francis  Thompson. 
Why  follow  Wilde  ?  Why  blind  your  eyes  to  the  distinction  between 
health  and  disease  ?  Is  it  that  you  love  Wilde's  words — that  you 
imagine  him  a  master  of  phrases  ?  Let  me  ask  you  to  turn  back 
to  the  great  prose-writers  of  England  and  in  their  light  and  in  your 
knowledge  of  the  structure  and  rhythm  of  sentences  perceive  the 
worth  of  your  master's  genius — a  paper  wind-mill  for  babes  to  play 
with  !  Is  it  gorgeousness  you  wish  for — lists  of  gems  and  descriptions 
of  splendour,  mazy  arabesques  and  mosaics  of  style  ?  Read  Hakluyt's 
Voyages  and  you  will  discover  that  the  early  merchants  who  traded 
in  India  understood  to  perfection  the  translation  into  writing  of 
Oriental  magnificence.  Is  it  the  mere  sonnet  of  words  you  wish  for  ? 
It  is  a  poor  desire  to  seek  in  prose  solely  the  music  of  vocables. 
But  turn  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  turn  to  Jeremy  Taylor,  turn  to  your 
Bible.  You  will  discover,  the  more  you  read,  the  more  you  under- 
stand, the  more  ignominious  appears  the  cult  of  that  type  of  Beauty  to 
which  Oscar  Wilde  paid  homage,  and  whose  idol  he  set  up  in  England. 

So  the  stout  worshipper  of  Duessa  retires  abashed, 
waving  a  protest  with  hands  encased  in  yellow  kid 
gloves !  The  second  essay  is  a  panegyric  on  the 
open-air  lyrics  of  Mr  W.  H.  Davies  (a  much  bigger 
man  than  the  super-tramp  whom  G.  B.  S.  discovered) 
which  are  as  pure  as  a  thrush's  note  and  clean  and 
fresh  as  a  May  morning  and  joyously  live  up  to  and 
beyond  the  singing  lines  : — 

Sing  out,  my  Soul,  thy  songs  of  joy  ; 

Such  as  a  happy  bird  will  sing 
Beneath  a  rainbow's  lovely  arch 

In  early  spring. 

The  remaining  paper  confuses  and  contrasts  Nietzsche 
and  Henley,  finding  in  the  latter's  famous  Hymn  ot 
Agnosticism  a  faith  beyond  and  above  the  former's 
philosophy  of  reaction  against  the  tyranny  of  pain. 
The  inner  secret,  the  causa  causans^  of  Nietzsche's 
creed,  is  expounded  once  for  all  in  the  following 
story : — 

Two  years  ago  I  fell  ill,  and  had  to  nurse  me  a  woman  of  keen  in- 
tellect and  quite  remarkable  intuition.  When  convalescent,  I  read 
to  her  certain  passages  from  our  iconoclastic  preacher's  works.  She 


IVAR    CAMPBELL  201 

had  not  read  him — had  scarcely  heard  talk  of  him  ;  her  interests — 
brave,  noble  interests — are  in  other  things.  When  I  had  finished, 
I  asked  her  opinion  of  the  author.  "  I  cannot  pretend  to  judge  on 
so  small  an  extract,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  think  this  Nietzsche  must 
have  been  continually  in  pain,  bodily  or  mental."  Marvelling  at  so 
accurate  a  discovery  of  the  truth,  I  asked  her  reason  for  saying  this. 
"  Because,"  she  said,  "  in  the  course  of  my  expressions  I  have  often 
noticed  that  men,  gentle-natured  when  in  health,  sometimes  become, 
when  suffering  pain,  quite  extraordinarily  cruel.  They  cannot,  bear 
pain  as  women  can."  And  she  told  me  one  or  two  stories  as  a  proof 
of  her  remark. 

So  it  was  his  continuous,  shattering  headaches  that 
bred  in  Nietzsche's  ravaged  brain  his  glorification 
of  brute  force ;  thus  he  flouted  the  cruelty  of  nature 
with  a  cruelty  of  his  own.  But  Henley,  though 
he  too  lived  through  purgatories  of  pain,  one  dark 
fire-illumined  chamber  opening  out  of  another,  kept 
his  courage  unconquered,  his  soul  sweet  and  genial 
in  spite  of  fits  of  irritation  which  were  sometimes 
expressed  in  injustice  to  old  friends,  such  as  the  dead- 
and-gone  Stevenson  sleeping  loftily  in  Samoa.  His 
soul  remained  anlma  naturaliter  christiana ;  he 
refused  to  follow  the  easy  creed  of  the  superman, 
hacking  his  way  through  all  living  obstacles  with  a 
butcher's  cleaver,  and  found  instead  the  more 
difficult  path  of  which  Clement  said :  "  It  is  an 
enterprise  of  noble  daring  to  take  our  way  to  God." 
.  .  .  And,  in  passing,  does  not  this  explanation  of 
Niet^che's  brutal  creed  also  solve  the  problem  of 
German  cruelty.  Of  all  the  peoples  in  the  war  they 
are  the  most  neurotic,  the  least  capable  of  bearing 
pain  with  courage  and  dignity.  All  our  surgeons 
who  have  treated  wounded  Germans  are  agreed  on 
that  point.  Perhaps  the  pain  they  inflict  on  helpless 
prisoners  of  war  is  their  revenge  for  the  pain — and, 
worse  still,  the  fear  of  pain — with  which  nature 
punishes  their  ill-balanced  nervous  system. 


202       THE    HIGHLAND    SOUL 

Ivar  Campbell  had  a  genius  for  fantasy,  and  some 
of  his  efforts  in  that  mode,  ranging  from  full-length 
example^  like  The  Story  of  the  Fiddler^  whose 
soul  hanged  itself  with  a  chain  of  stars  on  a  horn  of 
the  moon,  to  the  tiniest  fragments,  are  unlike  anything 
else  of  the  kind  in  English  literature.  Absinthe, 
really  an  essay  in  the  freest  of  free  verse,  is  a  striking 
proof  of  his  gift  for  making  arabesques  of  thought 
touched  with  emotion  :— 

Beauty  veileth  her  face  in  seven  veils  ;  she  hath  become  a  thing 
of  doubt,  an  imagination  tainted. 

Cloudily,  grey-green  from  the  tumbler's  depth  she  whirleth ;  to 
my  brain's  innermost  chamber  she  whirleth,  green-green,  cloudily. 

To  me  the  windy  uplands  were  a  creed  and  the  bird-song  alleluiah ; 
to  me  the  bare  earth's  bosom  was  an  anthem  and  a  dancing  leaf 
laughter. 

To  me  the  song  of  running  waters  was  Beauty's  song  ;  and  a  wood- 
land primrose  Beauty's  prayer. 

Beauty,  fever-flushed,  was  a  virgin  wed  ;  autumn  in  forest  places 
was  to  me  Beauty's  celestial  violation. 

Now  she  veileth  her  face  in  seven  veils  •  she  hath  become  a  thing 
of  doubt,  an  imagination  tainted. 

Cloudily,  grey-green  from  the  tumbler's  deeps  she  whirleth ;  so 
to  my  brain's  innermost  chamber  she  whirleth,  grey-green,  cloudily. 

It  is  clear  he  was  an  experimentalist  of  genius  ;  he 
did  not,  alas,  live  long  enough  for  the  experience 
which  chooses  one  of  many  by-ways  and  makes  it 
the  high-way  of  life-long  endeavour.  But  for  the 
war,  I  think,  he  might  have  become  a  master  of  the 
fantastical  essay — a  rare  thing  indeed  in  English 
literature.  Like  all  young  writers  his  thoughts  ran 
on  death,  which  is  the  theme  of  two  curious  experi- 
ments, one  a  grim  piece  of  realism  relating  the  pass- 
ing of  a  poor  old  woman  in  a  hovel  where  her  son, 
a  tired  labourer,  sleeps  uneasily  in  his  working 
clothes.  But  it  is  in  Roads  that  his  manner  is 
most  formed,  that  the  surest  promise  is  shown  of  his 


IVAR    CAMPBELL  203 

admirable  war-letters.  Roads  is  the  story  of  a 
walking  tour  in  which  he  and  a  friend  played  the 
part  of  vagabond  so  well  that  village  girls  giggled  at 
them;  nay,  even  the  vague  people  at  the  coffee-stall 
in  Sloane  Square,  where  they  and  Moab,  the  donkey, 
made  the  first  halt,  paid  them  a  tribute  of  laughter. 
Hazlitt  was  asleep,  his  blinds  undrawn,  as  they 
passed  his  house.  But,  later  on,  there  came  to  him 
a  beatitude,  a  vision,  of  the  abolition  of  gentility 
according  to  a  half-forgotten  prescription,  for  even  in 
Germany  that  Shavian  play  will  never  be  played 
again  : — 

And  as  I  lay  upon  the  packed  cart,  Ransome  loitering  many  miles 
behind,  and  Moab  plod-plodding  along,  I  dreamed  this  dream.  Upon 
fair  white  roads,  upon  tarred  mo  tor- ways,  through  rutty  tracks 
among  hedges,  there  passed  a  procession  of  pale  thin  things,  set 
ill-at-ease  upon  donkey-carts,  gazing  with  curious  eyes  at  the  country 
sights  and  sounds  and  snuffing  uncertainly  the  smells  of  wood  and 
moorland  and  leafy  lanes.  And  in  my  dream  I  led  this  procession, 
my  cart  went  creaking  happily  as  leader  while  I  ran  whispering  into 
the  white  ears  of  these  things.  Say  "  bloody,"  I  whispered,  and  a 
sigh  would  come  from  the  lips  of  them — "  bloody  "  they  would  say 
softly  without  conviction. 

Like  Kenneth  Grahame's  children  and  Mr  Hilaire 
Belloc,  he  enters  on  a  philosophy  of  roads,  as  lines 
of  ulterior  significance  in  the  palimpsest  of  the 
English  countryside,  which  he  seems  to  have  acquired 
from  the  gipsies,  to  judge  by  these  excerpts  from  a 
journal : — 

"  In  Wiltshire  once  I  told  a  black-haired  woman  she  was  upon  a 
Roman  Road. 

"  '  It's  a  Romany  Road,'  she  said. 

"  *  Well,  well,'  I  said,  '  we  call  it  a  Roman  Road.' 

"  '  You  may  pronounce  it  like  that,'  said  she.  '  A  Romany  Road 
would  be  a  gypsy  road,  and  in  Wiltshire  the  Roman  roads  are  used 
by  gypsies  more  than  by  other  travellers.' 

"  '  This  road  goes  all  round  the  World,'  said  another  dark  woman 
to  me  ;  and  this  for  the  Romans  was  true  enough.  :  We  be  Romans 


204       THE    HIGHLAND    SOUL 

indeed,  it  is  our  road,  but  the  farmers  do  plant  their  crops  upon  it  and 
fence  it  in,  and  we  are  unable  to  travel  there.'  ' 

He  has  glimpses  of  the  Roman  legionaries  marching 
on  these  ancient  grass-grown  thoroughfares  and  of 
all  the  later  generations  of  warriors  who  died  in  old, 
forgotten  battles — still  they  march  by  moonlight,  in 
darkly  gleaming  harness,  led  by  the  shadows  of  great 
names  no  more  remembered.  He  died  in  Meso- 
potamia before  the  memories  of  that  sad,  derelict 
land  could  take  hold  of  his  vivid  imagination.  I 
can  imagine  what  pictures  he  would  have  given  us, 
had  he  lived  long  enough,  of  the  pageantry  of  the 
ages  of  warfare  there — the  Assyrians  with  their 
mighty  calves  (tremendous  marchers  they  were,  and 
that  physical  trait  survives  to  this  very  day  in  their 
posterity)  hastening  to  eat  up  a  rebellious  city,  the 
tall  chivalrous  Persians  in  their  leathern  trousers,  and 
the  "  Ten  Thousand "  whose  march  up  to  within 
sight  and  hearing  of  Babylon  and  successful  retreat, 
the  most  wonderful  in  history,  opened  a  door  ot 
hope  to  the  ambition  of  Alexander  the  Great. 

When  the  war  broke  out,  he  volunteered  at  once, 
but  the  doctors  turned  him  down.  This  stroke  of 
ill-luck  left  him  searching  everywhere  for  work  in 
which  he  could  be  of  service  to  his  country.  There 
was  a  moment  when  he  almost  gave  up  the  quest, 
sadly  resigning  himself  to  being  what  he  called  "  one 
of  the  useless  ones."  However  he  learnt  to  drive  a 
motor  ambulance,  and  worked  for  some  time  in 
France  with  the  American  Red  Cross.  Returning 
to  England,  with  his  determination  to  become  a 
soldier  renewed,  he  was  once  more  rejected  by  a 
medical  board.  At  the  third  time  of  asking,  how- 
ever, he  was  accepted,  and  in  February,  19 15,  received 
a  commission  in  the  regiment  of  his  clan,  the  Argyll 


I V  A  R    C  A  M  P  B  E  L  L  205 

and  Sutherland  Highlanders.  The  depression  from 
which  he  had  been  suffering  vanished,  and  he 
rejoiced  in  his  new  life,  giving  his  whole  heart  and 
soul  to  the  routine  and  discipline  of  training.  He 
had  found  his  vocation ;  or,  rather,  it  had  found  him. 
No  more  pithy  or  picturesque  letters  than  his 
have  ever  been  written  from  the  Western  front  or  on 
the  way  to  it.  The  old,  fighting  blood  sings  in  his 
veins  when,  in  the  course  of  training,  he  finds  him- 
self in  command  of  a  full  company  of  his  clansmen. 
"  My  voice,"  he  writes,  "  uprose  above  wind  and 
rain.  I  evolved  them  from  close  column  of  platoons 
to  columns  of  fours  from  the  right  of  platoons. 
The  pipers  went  before  and  the  drums  (terum  tatoo, 
terum  tatoo)  and  I  came  strutting  behind,  and  the 
company  followed  me  like  a  flag  flowing  down  the 
road.  Me  for  a  sojer !  "  But  it  was  a  sad  blow, 
when  he  went  on  active  service,  to  find  he  was  not 
for  the  Argylls  but  for  the  Seaforths.  Four 
"cheeky  Charlies"  or  "pipsqueaks,"  the  wicked 
little  shells  that  arrive  with  a  sudden  whiz,  bestowed 
on  him  the  baptism  of  fire  four  months  after  he  had 
been  gazetted.  His  letters  are  full  of  small  etchings, 
not  a  word  astray  or  askew,  of  the  scenes  of  trench 
warfare.  "  At  dawn,"  to  give  an  example,  "  came 
a  mist  over  this  flat,  scarred  land ;  the  sun  rose 
ghostly  white  as  a  moon ;  a  cuckoo  between  the 
enemy's  lines  laughed.  Away  to  the  left  came  the 
long  staccato  sounds  of  rifle-fire,  and  the  wooden 
tapping  of  the  machine  guns.  Both  sides  feared  an 
advance  through  the  mist ;  sweep  the  ground  there 
to  the  front  with  bullets ;  make  them  think  twice 
about  getting  out  of  their  trenches.  ...  In  the 
mist,  careless,  unthinking,  a  German  climbed  over 
his  parapet  into  the  field  !  The  English,  no  doubt, 


2o6       THE    HIGHLAND    SOUL 

were  asleep ;  anyhow  the  mist  was  concealment. 
So  may  he  think  in  Heaven  or  Hell ;  we  have  some 
good  shots  in  this  Battalion.  That  morning  the  bag 
was  two  brace."  Like  a  born  soldier,  he  is  at  his 
keenest  in  the  weird,  far-listening  morn ;  and  in  the 
evening,  when  the  glimmering  landscape  fades  and  so 
many  are  tired  and  careless.  The  thought  that  war, 
after  all,  is  the  most  natural  mode  of  existence  occurs 
again  and  yet  again : — 

It  is  difficult  to  write  things  out  here.  Journalists  do  it,  yet  miss 
the  note  of  naturalness  which  strikes  me.  For  these  things  are  natural. 
I  suppose  we  have  been  fighting  a  thousand  thousand  years  to  a  thou- 
sand years'  peace  ;  they  miss,  too,  the  beauty  of  the  scene  and  action 
as  a  whole — that  beauty  defined  as  something  strange,  rarefied  ; 
our  deep  passions  made  lawful  and  evident ;  our  desires  made  accept- 
able ;  our  direction  straight.  Such  will  be  the  impressions  to  linger, 
to  be  handed  on  to  future  generations,  as  the  Napoleonic  wars  are 
fine  adventures  to  us.  Here,  present  and  glaring  to  our  eyes  in 
trenches  and  in  billets,  etc.,  the  more  abiding  and  deeper  meanings 
of  the  war  are  readable. 

Here's  a  scene  I  shall  remember  always  :  A  misty  summer  morn- 
ing— I  went  along  a  sap-head  running  towards  the  German  line  at 
right-angles  to  our  own.  Looking  out  over  the  country,  flat  and  un- 
interesting in  peace,  I  beheld  what  at  first  would  seem  to  be  a  land 
ploughed  by  the  ploughs  of  giants.  In  England  you  read  of  concealed 
trenches — here  we  do  not  trouble  about  that.  Trenches  rise  up, 
grey  clay,  3  or  4  feet  above  the  ground.  Save  for  one  or  two  men 
— snipers — at  the  sap-head,  the  country  was  deserted.  No  sign  of 
humanity — a  dead  land.  And  yet  thousands  of  men  were  there, 
like  rabbits  concealed.  The  artillery  was  quiet ;  there  was  no  sound 
but  a  cuckoo  in  a  shell-torn  poplar.  Then,  as  a  rabbit  in  the  early 
morning  comes  out  to  crop  grass,  a  German  stepped  over  the  enemy 
trench — the  only  living  thing  in  sight.  "  I'll  take  him,"  says  the 
man  near  me.  And  like  a  rabbit  the  German  falls.  And  again  com- 
plete silence  and  desolation. 

He  is  afraid  this  must  be  bad  writing ;  he  feels 
he  had  never  learnt  to  write  naturally  of  natural 
things.  Yet,  as  he  himself  guesses,  Stevenson  wrote 
in  a  similar  style  of  a  somewhat  similar  scene,  as 
quiet  and  secret  and  ominous,  when  he  described 


IVAR    CAMPBELL  207 

the  shooting  of  the  king's  factor  in  Appin  so  as  to 
bring  out  the  naturalness  of  it  all.  Here  is  a  very 
different,  but  equally  intimate,  impression  of  the 
life  in  a  vast  theatre  of  war  which  is  yet  never 
theatrical : — 

A  concert  in  the  evening — very  touching  to  my  incurable  senti- 
mentalism — up  against  an  old  farm-house  :  the  stage  a  cart — a  ring 
of  dim  faces  and  knees  below  ;  and  the  slow,  sad  songs  these  men 
love,  with  choruses  they  sing  softly,  and  occasionally  the  wild  wail 
of  Gaelic  :  to  end  with  "  God  save  the  King  " — all  of  us  very  stiff 
at  the  attention  :  and  back  to  the  mess  and  drinks  and  chaff  and  tales 
of  nothing  at  all — of  this  man  here  and  that  man  there,  and  how 
So-and-So  died  and  Jim  got  nerves  and  Bill  the  D.S.O.,  and  good- 
night, good-night :  and  in  the  silence  following  lights  out,  the  thud 
of  the  guns  punctures  the  night  stillness. 

Affairs  are  moving  here — or  will  move — or  have  moved.  Continual 
rumours  buzz  like  mosquitoes  about  us.  Those  in  authority  seem 
satisfied  and  pleased  :  they  are  able  to  perceive  large  and  clear ; 
we,  cooped  in  our  own  speculations,  are  optimistic,  for  optimism, 
though  founded  on  ignorance,  is  good  for  the  nerves.  Douglas  writes 
the  War  may  collapse  as  suddenly  as  it  rose  up.  God  and  the  devil 
know  ! — humanity  can  but  hope.  War,  perchance,  may  become  a 
habit.  In  twenty  years  you  may  still  be  writing  to  me  and  I  to  you. 
We  shall  have  advanced  a  thousand  yards,  or  retiree! — a  strategical 
movement. 

Paris  has  passed  a  law  for  marriage  by  proxy  for  soldiers  in  the 
trenches.  God  forbid  things  should  go  too  far,  and  the  children  be 
born  by  proxy  too  !  Yet  who  can  tell,  in  twenty  years.  A  young 
Frenchman  arrives  in  the  trenches  ;  seeks  un  Monsieur  Tel  ou  Tel. 
He  finds  him.  "  Bonjour,  papa ;  j'suis  ton  fils."  "  Mon  fils  ? 
Grands  Dieux — par  qui  ?  "  "  Ton  ancienne  amie,  Marie-Louise." 
"  Marie-Louise — Marie-Louise  ?  Ah  !  je  m'en  souviens.  Elle  est 
ma  femme,  alors  ?  "  "Oui,  Papa,  et  j'suis  ton  fils."  "  Bien,  je 
suis  content :  j'en  ai  d'autres  par  ici,  mais,  n'importe.  Tu  vois  les 
tranchees  en  face  ?  '  "  Oui,  papa."  "  Sont  les  Boches  — en  avant, 
fils  de  Marie-Louise  par  je  ne  sais  qui — en  avant,  fils  de  mon  cceur " 

And  here  is  another  night-piece  which  does  not 
end  in  speculative  thoughts  under  the  moon,  that 
whole  sepulchre  in  the  skies,  scribbled  over  with 
hie  jacets,  and  the  merriment  yet  is  reaction : — 

Went  down  to  the  fire  trench  with  100  men  last  night,  and  dug  hard 
for  three  hours.  Very  tired  and  hot ;  the  enemy  were  quiet ;  a 


208       THE   HIGHLAND    SOUL 

starry  night ;  the  peace  of  war  on  such  occasions  is  a  blessed  state  ; 
though  to  the  sight  is  little  peace.  Our  star  shells  and  theirs  float 
continually  up  into  the  sky  to  illumine  any  evil  deeds  either  may  con- 
template across  that  unmanned  borderland  between  the  hostile 
trenches.  I  find  in  this  bright  white  light  you  see  the  rare  trees 
blasted  as  by  lightning — blasted  indeed  by  a  more  terrible  but  more 
common  occurrence,  shell-fire — and  the  rough  outlines  of  trenches 
and  men's  figures  immense  behind  them  :  if  working,  struck  immobile 
by  light,  lest  any  enemy  sniper  should  detect  movement.  Groups 
of  Rodin  designs — in  the  distance,  too,  gaunt  skeletons  of  houses. 

His  men,  of  course,  are  in  his  mind  all  the  time ; 
it  is  the  custom  never  to  forget  them  in  a  Highland 
Regiment,  where  all  are  thought  of  as  gentlemen, 
fellow-clansmen,  equals  in  a  sense.  He  tells  a 
quaint,  quotable  story  of  what  one  of  his  men 
wrote  in  a  letter  home ;  he  had  trained  at  Airdrie 
before  coming  out.  "  When  I  was  back  home,"  he 
wrote,  "  I  wished  to  Hell  I  was  out  of  Airdrie  ; 
now  I  wish  to  Airdrie  I  was  out  of  Hell."  He  is 
vexed  by  his  dirtiness ;  like  everybody  else  he  feels 
over-savoury.  The  meaning  of  the  soldier's  song  :— 

I've  a  little  grey  flea  in  my  vest, 

comes  home  to  him,  as  the  co-operative  smell  ascends 
to  heaven  and  each  individual  conducts  a  private 
offensive  against  the  Little  Brothers  of  the  Prussian. 
Anyhow,  they  are  cleaner  than  the  Indian  regiments. 
It  is  one  thing  to  admire  them  at  night  and  to  feel 
you  are  taking  over  trenches  from  bronze  gods. 
It  is  another  thing  to  inhabit  their  trenches  which 
"  move  bodily  across  country  like  cheese "  and,  as 
the  American  soldier  said,  have  to  be  lassoed  first. 
The  enemy  is  chaffed  as  well  as  sniped  and  strafed 
by  turns  :— 

There  was  a  pleasant  though  vulgar  incident  in  the  trenches  the 
other  day.  We  had  painted  upon  a  board  and  shown  the  enemy  the 
news  of  the  Riga  sea-fight.  And  to  make  sure  they  understood,  we 
wrote  the  news  down,  put  the  paper  in  a  jam-tin  stuffed  with  earth 


IVAR    CAMPBELL  209 

to  make  it  heavy,  and  catapulted  it  over,  as  if  it  had  been  a  bomb, 
to  the  German  trenches,  which  it  just  failed  to  reach.  However,  a 
Boche,  trusting  to  the  sporting  instinct  of  the  Scotch,  climbed  out  of 
his  trench  and  picked  the  tin  up  ! 

The  details  of  the  Riga  fight  were  fairly  written  down  ;  the  vulgarity 
came  in  the  line  : 

"  The  Kaiserin  has  had  twins." 

Then  comes  a  battle,  not  pressed  to  extremes,  and 
so  called  a  "  demonstration  "  : — 

The  splutter  of  shrapnel,  the  red  squeal  of  field  guns,  N.E. ;  the 
growl  of  the  heavies  moving  slowly  through  the  air,  the  cr-r-r-r-ump 
of  their  explosion.  But  in  a  bombardment  all  tones  mingle  and  their 
noise  is  like  machinery  running  not  smoothly  but  roughly,  pantingly, 
angrily  ;  wildly  making  chaos  of  peace  and  wholeness. 

You  perceive,  too,  in  imagination,  men  infinitely  small,  running, 
affrighted  rabbits,  from  the  upheaval  of  the  shells — nerve-racked, 
deafened  ;  clinging  to  earth,  hiding  eyes,  whispering  "  0  God,  0 
God  ! "  You  perceive,  too,  other  men,  sweaty,  brown,  infinitely 
small  also,  moving  the  guns,  feeding  the  belching  monster,  grimly, 
quietly  pleased. 

But  with  eyes  looking  over  this  land  of  innumerable  irruptions, 
you  see  no  man.  The  land  is  inhuman. 

But  thousands  of  men  are  there  ;  men  who  are  below  ground, 
men  who  have  little  bodies  but  immense  brains.  And  the  men  facing 
West  are  saying,  "  This  is  an  attack,  they  will  attack  when  this  hell's 
over,"  and  they  go  on  saying  this  to  themselves  continually. 

And  the  men  facing  East  are  .saying,  "  We've  got  to  get  over  the 
parapet.  We've  got  to  get  over  the  parapet — when  the  guns  lift." 

And  then  the  guns  lift  up  their  heads  and  shout  a  longer,  higher 
song. 

And  this  untenanted  land  is  suddenly  alive  with  little  men,  rushing, 
stumbling — rather  foolishly  leaping  forward — laughing,  shouting, 
crying  in  the  charge. 

There  is  one  thing  cheering.  The  men  of  the  Battalion — through 
all  and  in  spite  of  that  noisy,  untasty  day  ;  through  the  wet,  cold 
night,  hungry  and  tired,  living  now  in  mud  and  water,  with  every 
prospect  of  more  rain  to-morrow — are  cheery.  Sometimes,  back 
in  billets,  I  hate  the  men — their  petty  crimes,  their  continual  bad 
language  with  no  variety  of  expression,  their  stubborn  moods.  But 
in  a  difficult  time  they  show  up  splendidly.  Laughing  in  mud,  joking 
in  water — I'd  "  demonstrate  "  into  Hell  with  some  of  them  and  not 
care. 

Yet,  under  heavy  shell -fire  it  was  curious  to  look  into  their  eyes — 
o 


210       THE    HIGHLAND    SOUL 

some  of  them  little  fellows  from  shops,  civilians  before,  now  and  after  : 
you  perceived  a  wide  rather  frightened,  piteous  wonder  in  their  eyes, 
a  patient  look  turned  towards  you,  saying  not  "  What  the  blankety, 
blankety  hell  is  this  ?  "  but  "  Is  this  quite  fair  ?  We  cannot  move, 
we  are  but  little  animals.  Is  it  quite  necessary  to  make  such  infernally 
large  explosive  shells  to  kill  such  infernally  small  and  feeble  animals 
as  ourselves  ?  " 

I  quite  agreed  with  them,  but  had  to  put  my  eye-glass  firmly  in 
my  eye  and  make  jokes  ;  and,  looking  back,  I  blush  to  think  of  the 
damnably  bad  jokes  I  did  make. 

He  gets  out  of  the  trenches  for  a  time,  and  has 
leisure,  in  the  intervals  of  teaching  the  art  of  throw- 
ing bombs,  to  think  over  the  folly  of  the  politicians, 
"  men,  severally  great  in  peace-time,  in  war-time 
treading  upon  each  other's  toes  as  they  grumble  and 
stutter  and  stumble  and  mutter  in  the  dark  of  their 
statesmanship."  Kitchener  and  Joffre  are  silent, 
but  they  go  on  talking,  talking,  talking,  and 
"  Welsh  David  swings  traversely  from  heights  of 
tub-oratory  to  depths  of  journalistic  cliches." 

At  the  end  of  the  year  he  is  transferred  to 
Mesopotamia,  where  he  knows  'that  war  will  be 
more  like  the  old  historic  game  of  pitched  battles, 
pursuit  and  retreat,  marching  and  counter-marching. 
He  asks  for  a  copy  of  Xenophon's  Anabasis,  the 
best  story  of  military  adventure  ever  written.  He 
had  by  then  made  up  his  mind  to  remain  a  soldier 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  But  he  was  shot  through 
the  body,  while  gallantly  leading  his  men  against  a 
strong  Turkish  position  in  front  of  Sheikh  Saad, 
and  died  on  the  8th  January  1916,  in  his  twenty- 
sixth  year. 


AN  IRISH  TORCH-BEARER 
TOM  KETTLE 

AT  the  General  Election  of  1910  Tom  Kettle 
(as  he  was  familiarly,  affectionately,  called 
by  his  political  friends  and  enemies  alike) 
was  again  returned  as  Parliamentary  representative 
for  East  Tyrone  by  an  increased  majority.  In  the 
course  of  the  election  he  was  welcomed  at  one  remote 
and  rather  inaccessible  spot  by  a  poverty-stricken 
'  populace  which  had  improvised  a  mountain  band 
and  crude  home-made  torches  of  turf  and  paraffin. 
"  Friends,"  said  the  winning  candidate,  surely  one 
of  the  wisest  and  wittiest  of  Irishmen,  "you  have 
met  us  with  God's  two  best  gifts  to  man — fire  and 
music."  All  who  can  see  him  clear  for  what  he 
truly  was,  in  spite  of  mists  of  party  prejudice  and 
the  age-long  misunderstanding  between  England 
and  Ireland,  will  admit  that  these  were  the  very 
gifts  he  himself  gave  to  humanity  in  the  greatest 
crisis  of  the  world's  history.  Fire  and  music : 
firstly,  a  most  abundant  endowment  of  the  per- 
fervidum  ingenlum  Scotorum  which  has  seen  a 
leaping  flame  on  so  many  lofty  altars  in  Ireland 
and  elsewhere ;  secondly,  a  career  closing  in  the 
Last  Post,  which  was  as  subtle  a  harmony  of 
beautiful  assonances  as  the  most  exquisite  and  other- 
worldly of  Celtic  poems. 

Thomas  M.  Kettle  was  the  third  son  of  Andrew 
J.  Kettle  and  of  Margaret  MacCourt;  he  was  born 
in  1880  at  Artane,  Co.  Dublin.  He  was  proud  of 
his  Norse  ancestry  and  of  the  way  in  which  these 

211 


212    AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

pirates  of  the  North  were  subdued  to  nobler  usages 
— "  We  came,  we  the  invaders,  to  dominate  and 
remained  to  serve.  For  Ireland  has  signed  us  with 
the  oil  and  chrism  of  her  human  sacrament,  and 
even  though  we  should  deny  the  faith  with  our 
lips,  she  would  hold  our  hearts  to  the  end."  He 
was  not  less  proud  of  his  dour  old  father,  a  famous 
local  reformer,  who  did  more  than  any  other  man 
to  free  Ireland  from  the  curse  of  absentee  owners, 
and  could  not  bring  himself  to  receive  the  milder 
counsels  of  an  age  of  more  humane  politics.  Tom 
Kettle  lived  in  the  country  until  he  was  twelve,  and 
the  stilly  charm  and  ancient  peace  of  the  remember- 
ing fields  were  with  him  to  the  end,  wooing  him  to 
leave  the  dust  and  uproar  of  politics  and  settle  down 
in  some  picturesque  cottage  to  cultivate  early  potatoes 
and  late  literature.  The  soul  of  the  fine  Irishman  is 
always  thus  divided  against  itself;  but  the  fighting 
instinct  commonly  prevails  against  the  deep  desire 
to  live  quietly  under  quicken  boughs  and  be  a 
comrade  of  birds  and  flowers  and  the  consulting 
stars,  and  so  make  one's  soul.  He  was  educated 
first  at  the  Christian  Brothers'  School  in  Dublin  and 
next  at  Clongowes  Wood  College,  and  he  won 
many  medals  and  distinctions  there  and  at  Univer- 
sity College,  whither  he  proceeded  in  1897.  At 
University  College  he  became  Auditor  of  the 
Literary  and  Historical  Society,  and  won  the  gold 
medal  for  Oratory.  His  peculiar  gifts  were  already 
apparent,  especially  his  happy  faculty,  actually 
amounting  to  genius,  for  grasping  a  complex  sub- 
ject and  crystallizing  it  in  a  brief,  brilliant  phrase. 
A  breakdown  in  health,  the  effect  of  over-study  on 
a  high-strung  and  unresting  mind,  interrupted  his 
university  career  for  a  long  period,  and  in  1904  the 


TOM    KETTLE  213 

death  of  a  brother  to  whom  he  was  passionately 
attached  still  further  taxed  his  shattered  nervous 
system.  He  had  to  visit  the  Tyrol  to  recover  his 
health,  and  it  was  during  this  wander-year  that  he 
perfected  his  knowledge  of  European  languages  and 
literature  and  learned  to  see  Irish  affairs  in  the  just 
and  ample  perspective  of  world-thought  and  world- 
policy.  Ireland,  in  the  most  significant  period  of 
her  ancient  and  impressive  history,  when  she  was 
the  land  of  refuge  for  Roman  culture  during  the 
Dark  Ages  and  for  centuries  afterwards,  was 
intimately  in  touch — much  more  closely  than 
England — with  European  civilisation,  and  it  was 
Kettle's  ruling  ideal  to  revive  in  Ireland  a  sense  of 
her  historical  mission  as  a  seed-plot  of  spirituality  for 
the  European  world  and,  what  is  more,  a  mediator 
between  the  power  of  England  and  the  living 
mosaic  of  European  cultures.  He  was  drawn  into 
a  close  and  yet  closer  sympathy  with  France,  the 
conqueror  of  liberty  for  herself  and  for  all  other 
nations,  great  and  small,  and  always  able  to  under- 
stand the  beautiful  and  impulsive  soul  of  Ireland. 
"  The  Irish  mind,"  he  wrote  in  one  of  his  books, 
"  is  like  the  French — c  lucid,  vigorous,  and  positive  ' 
—though  less  methodical,  since  it  never  had  the 
happiness  to  undergo  the  Latin  discipline.1  France 
and  Ireland  have  been  made  to  understand  each 
other."  When  these  determining  motives  of  his 
mentality  are  fully  understood,  it  becomes  manifest 
that  he  could  never  have  held  aloof  from  the 
struggle  against  Germany's  attempt  to  impose  her 
Kultur,  which  is  barbarism  made  scientific  and  pro- 
vincialism writ  large,  on  lands  that  were  Christian 
and  civilized  centuries  before  even  the  Cross,  which 

1  Ireland  was  never  a  part  of  the  Roman  Empire. 


214    AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

is  a  sword-hilt,  appeared  in  the  forests  and  wilder- 
nesses of  the  Alemanni. 

He  was  called  to  the  Bar  in  1905,  after  winning 
a  Victoria  Prize  at  the  end  of  his  term  at  King's 
Inns.  There  can  be  no  doubt  he  would  have  been 
a  brilliantly  successful  advocate  if  he  could  have 
made  the  law  his  profession.  But  he  could  not 
confine  himself  to  the  point  of  view  for  which  he 
was  briefed,  could  not  bind  his  rich  and  humane 
personality  down  to  the  bed  of  Procrustes  of  legal 
moulds  and  forms,  which  seemed  to  him  "  too 
narrow  and  too  nicely  definite,  too  blank  to 
psychology  to  contain  the  passionate  chaos  of  the 
life  that  is  poured  into  them."  A  friendly  critic 
justly  observed  that  he  could  only  have  been  his 
own  happy  self  as  an  advocate  when  pleading  on 
the  Judgment  Day  at  the  Bar  of  Heaven  for  a 
reversal  of  the  historic  verdicts  against  all  desperate 
sinners.  The  lines  of  a  half-forgotten  poet  who 
stands  himself  in  need  of  a  little  white-washing  :— 

Never  to  bow  or  kneel 

To  any  brazen  lie  ; 
To  love  the  worst ;  to  feel 

The  worst  is  even  as  I. 
To  count  all  triumph  vain 

That  helps  no  burdened  man. 
I  think  so  still,  and  so 

I  end  as  I  began. 

was  his  creed,  and  none  more  unsuitable  for  a  success- 
ful barrister  could  be  imagined.  He  found  it  a 
dreadful  ordeal  tov  defend  a  criminal  unsuccessfully 
and  to  think  afterwards  that  there  might  have  been 
no  conviction  if  another  and  a  better  lawyer  had 
been  chosen  for  the  defence.  And  to  have  been 
successful  in  the  prosecution  of  some  poor  wretch 
would  have  been  a  still  more  terrible  experience  for 


TOM    KETTLE  215 

one  who  believed  that,  as  all  human  beings  are 
saints,  so  they  are  all  sinners,  and  that  the  innocent 
— at  any  rate  the  legally  innocent — are  those  who 
have  not  been  found  out. 

He  soon  forsook  the  Law  and  plunged  into 
journalism,  which,  thanks  to  his  vigorous  and  varied 
prose  style,  became  literature  in  his  hands.  He  was 
too  outspoken — and  too  much  of  a  man  of  letters — 
to  be  retained  long  in  an  editorial  chair  by  pro- 
prietors who,  especially  in  Ireland,  think  an  editor 
ought  to  be  a  flesh-and-blood  gramophone.  In 
1 906  he  was  given  the  opportunity  of  fighting  the 
East  Tyrone  constituency,  which  he  won  by  a 
majority  of  sixteen.  Nobody  else  could  have  won 
and  held  that  particular  seat  in  the  Nationalist 
interest.  In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  he  went 
to  America  on  a  political  mission  which  was  for  him 
a  personal  triumph.  The  freedom  and  hospitality 
of  the  United  States  greatly  delighted  him ;  he  was 
at  home  for  six  months  in  that  electric  atmosphere, 
so  full  of  intellectual  ozone,  and  he  treasured  up  the 
humorous  sayings  he  heard  there — such  as  "  I  don't 
know  where  I  am  going  but  I  am  on  my  way,"  and 
"  we  trust  in  God ;  all  others  pay  cash."  There  is 
a  spice  of  gauloiserie  in  American  humour  which 
must  have  appealed  tO'SO  keen  a  votary  of  French 
wit.  In  1910  he  was  re-elected  for  East  Tyrone  by 
a  majority  of  1 1 8 — and  the  increase  in  the  number 
of  his  supporters  was  a  striking  proof  of  the  power 
of  a  humanizing  personality,  for  the  dominating 
issue  in  such  half-way  constituencies  in  the  North 
is  Catholic  green  v.  Protestant  orange,  and  it  is 
nothing  short  of  a  political  miracle  for  an  elector  to 
change  his  flag.  The  truth  is  that  even  his  bitterest 
political  opponents  could  not  help  liking  Tom 


216     AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

Kettle,  who,  for  his  part,  would  not  deny 
their  claim  to  be  considered  honest  Irishmen  ac- 
cording to  their  lights.  He  was  impatient  of 
any  attempt  to  stir  up  the  ashes  of  ancient  feuds. 
Appealing  to  Ulstermen  to  refrain  their  enthusiasm 
for  William  of  Orange,  he  said :  "  Why  let  us 
quarrel  over  a  dead  Dutchman  ? "  His  famous 
reply  to  Rudyard  Kipling: — 

The  poet,  for  a  coin, 

Hands  to  the  gabbling  rout 
A  bucketful  of  Boyne 

To  put  the  sunrise  out, 

would  perhaps  have  been  more  telling  without  the 
suggestion  that  the  poem  to  which  it  was  a  reply 
was  written  for  cash,  not  from  a  solemn  sense  of 
duty.  Tom  Kettle  was  not  impeccable;  he  pre-. 
ferred  to  be  human  and  lovable.  His  Parliamentary 
epigrams  are  as  often  quoted  by  his  opponents  as  by 
his  friends.  Mr  Balfour's  complaisance  in  yielding  to 
the  Tariff  Reformers  was  satirized  in  the  saying : 
"They  have  nailed  their  leader  to  the  mast."  He 
summed  up  the  difference  between  the  two  great 
British  parties  as  follows :  "  When  in  office  the 
Liberals  forget  their  principles  and  the  Tories 
remember  their  friends."  He  could  be  hard  on  his 
critics.  "  I  don't  mind  loquacity  as  long  as  it  is  not 
Belloc-quacity  "  ;  and  "  Mr  Long  knows  a  sentence 
should  have  a  beginning,  but  he  quite  forgets  it 
should  also  have  an  end " — these  quips  were 
singularly  effective  as  they  sprang  dramatically  out 
of  the  occasion.  His  description  of  Mr  Healy  as 
"  a  brilliant  calamity "  is  a  definition.  He  spoke 
of  Irish  emigrants  as  "  landless  men  from  a  manless 
land."  Home  Rule  he  described  as  "  a  divorce 
between  two  administrations,  but  a  marriage 


TOM    KETTLE  217 

between  two  nations."  Of  the  Royal  Irish  Con- 
stabulary he  observed :  "  It  was  formerly  an  army 
of  occupation.  Now,  owing  to  the  all  but  complete 
disappearance  of  crime,  it  is  an  army  of  no 
occupation."  "  Loyalty,"  he  suggested  significantly, 
"  is  the  bloom  on  the  face  of  freedom."  His 
literary  criticisms  were  almost  always  brief  and 
felicitous.  A  stupid  book  which  appeared  in  the 
Christmas  season  was  described  as  "  very  suitable  for 
the  Christmas  fire."  Cleverness  he  defined  as  a 
perfumed  malice — the  perfume  predominating  in 
literature,  the  malice  in  life.  Of  Mr  George 
Moore,  who  so  steadfastly  refuses  to  become  old 
or  ugly,  he  said  :  "  He  suffers  from  the  sick 
imagination  of  the  growing  boy."  He  was 
delightfully  adroit  in  his  dealings  with  literary 
impostors.  A  popular  novelist  who  made  money 
without  making  literature  spoke  of  his  success  with 
great  unction,  boasting  that  his  latest  book  had 
been  translated  into  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and 
even  Dutch.  In  a  most  urbane  voice  Kettle 
observed  :  "  That  is  very  interesting.  I  daresay 
then  it  will  soon  be  translated  into  English." 
Even  more  crushing  was  his  quiet  retort  on  an 
Australian  minor  poet  who  argued  that  men  of 
letters  should  keep  out  of  the  war  and  hand  on 
the  torch  of  culture  to  the  future  generation — "  I 
would  rather  be  a  tenth-rate  minor  poet,"  he 
said,  "  than  a  great  soldier."  "  Well,  aren't  you  ?  " 
was  the  devastating  reply. 

His  political  position  was  clear  and  unequivocal. 
He  was  for  a  Free  United  Ireland  in  a  free  world  ; 
and  it  was  for  freedom,  not  for  a  flag,  that  he  fought 
all  his  life  and  in  the  end  died  gloriously.  He 
scorned  the  notion,  so  widely  current  in  England, 


218    AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

that  any  form  of  material  prosperity  can  compensate 
a  people  for  the  lack  of  full  autonomy.  "  There  is 
in  liberty,"  he  wrote  in  his  pamphlet  on  Home 
Rule  Finance,  "  a  certain  tonic  inspiration,  there 
is  in  the  national  idea  a  deep  fountain  of  courage 
and  energy  not  to  be  figured  out  in  dots  and 
decimals  ;  and  unless  you  can  call  these  psychological 
forces  into  action  your  Home  Rule  Bill  will  be  only 
ink,  paper,  and  disappointment.  In  one  word  Home 
Rule  must  be  a  moral  as  well  as  a  material  liquida- 
tion of  the  past."  He  would  not,  he  could  not, 
believe  that  Ulster  was  beyond  the  reach  of  a  recon- 
ciliation such  as  he  himself  was  ready  to  offer  ;  and, 
if  all  other  Nationalists  had  been  as  free  from  bitter, 
narrow,  obscurantistic  views  as  himself,  it  is  probable 
Irish  union  would  have  been  already  an  accom- 
plished fact.  He  could  see  no  reason  in  the  nature 
of  things  why  the  ancient  animosities  should  be 
maintained  which  divided  Ireland  and  separated  two 
sister-isles. '  Nationalist  Ireland  had  worse  enemies 
than  Englishmen  or  Protestant  Ulstermen — ignor- 
ance, poverty,  and  disease,  to  wit.  He  could 
admire  the  stark  independence  of  the  Protestant 
Ulsterman  who  has  always  been  such  a  tremendous 
moral  force  in  America.  At  the  1910  East  Tyrone 
Election  a  small  boy  watched  the  motor-car 
wistfully  in  which  he  and  his  wife  (whose  admir- 
able character  sketch  is  here  stolen,  and  will  she 
think  it  spoilt  in  the  stealing  by  one  who  cannot 
see  eye  to  eye  with  her  in  politics  ?  )  were  about  to 
start  after  a  breakdown.  He  was  offered  a  spin, 
and  accepted  the  favour.  When  he  was  set  down 
he  lifted  his  cap,  and  said :  "  Thank  you,  Mr 
Kettle.  I  am  much  obliged.  To  hell  with  the 
Pope."  Never  was  an  incorruptible  independence 


TOM    KETTLE  219 

more  quaintly  and  conclusively  expressed.  Later 
on,  when  Protestant  Ulstermen  and  Nationalists 
fought  side  by  side  as  good  comrades,  appreciating 
one  another's  valour  at  its  truth,  an  even  more 
intense  vision  of  an  Ireland  one  and  indivisible 
flamed  up  in  generous  merit.  The  brotherhood 
of  the  brave,  he  felt,  would  be  the  basis  of  a 
complete  reconciliation.  Even  after  the  fatal  events 
of  Easter  Monday,  which  angered  him  to  the 
heart  and  seemed  at  first  the  end  of  all  his  dream- 
ing, he  still  believed  that  the  mingling  of  blood 
on  the  battlefield  would  be  the  sacrament  of  Irish 
union.  He  may  have  been  right ;  nay,  he  must 
have  been  right;  for  in  these  high  and  passionate 
dispensations  only  he  who  can  say  credo  quia 
incrcdibile  shall  truly  anticipate  the  strange  and 
unexpected  truth.  But  it  is  as  well  perhaps  that  he 
did  not  live  through  the  intervening  years  to  see 
Sinn  Fein  triumphant  in  its  retrograde  policy,  the 
glorious  Irish  regiments  starved  of  Irishmen,  and 
his  friends  the  Americans  pointing  the  finger  of 
scorn  at  the  Irish  nation  as  a  race  of  shirkers  and 
Pro-Germans  and  Pacifists.  And  yet — had  he  lived 
on,  to  hear  cries  of  "Up,  the  Kaiser,"  in  his  own 
green  countryside,  he  would  not  have  failed  in 
hopefulness  nor  faltered  in  the  high  task  of  securing 
peace  by  blood-brotherhood. 

He  was  a  great  success  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
"  \Vit  and  humour,  denunciation  and  appeal  came 
from  him,"  said  a  reliable  witness,  u  not  merely 
fluently  but  always  with  effect.  Tall  and  slight, 
with  his  soft  boyish  face  and  luminous  eyes,  he  soon 
startled  and  then  compelled  the  attention  of  the 
House  by  his  irresistible  sparkle  and  his  luminous 


220    AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

argument."  His  keen  and  vivid  intelligence  found 
an  unfailing  interest  in  every  subject  of  debate,  and 
he  liked  the  political  and  journalistic  life  of  London 
where  he  felt  in  touch  with  the  tendencies  of 
European  thought — his  beloved  Dublin,  his  "  grey 
and  laughing  capital,"  was  an  intellectual  back-water 
in  comparison.  In  1909,  however,  which  was  the 
year  of  his  marriage,  he  was  appointed  Professor  of 
National  Economics  in  the  National  University,  and 
in  the  following  year  he  resigned  his  seat  in 
Parliament  as  he  found  it  impossible  to  combine  the 
duties  of  a  Member  with  those  of  a  whole-time 
Professorship.  The  study  of  economics  had  always 
appealed  to  him;  not  as  the  dismal  science,  which 
traces  the  course  of  an  "  economic  man  "  whose  only 
attribute  was  the  itching  palm,  but  as  a  sociological 
art,  dealing  with  foundations  of  a  community,  which 
enabled  one  to  find  and  formulate  "  an  economic 
idea  fitted  to  express  the  self-realisation  of  a  nation 
which  is  resolute  to  realize  itself."  He  would  have 
been  the  List  of  Ireland,  perhaps.  He  did  not  cease 
to  be  a  political  influence  by  becoming  a  Professor. 
Nay,  the  change  really  widened  his  opportunities  of 
impressing  his  personality  on  the  political  thought  of 
his  age  and  country,  for  it  permitted  him  to  gain  a 
closer  intimacy  with  the  realities  of  Irish  living— 
particularly  with  the  terrible  problem  of  Irish 
poverty — and  to  act  as  a  leading  member  of  an 
u  Intelligence  Department "  designed'  to  provide  the 
fighters  at  the  political  front  with  strategical  ideas. 
It  was  not  necessary  to  regret  (as  many  did)  what 
was  not  a  demotion  from  realities,  but  a  promotion 
from  the  Westminster  trenches  to  a  position  on  the 
higher  command  or  strategic  staff  of  Nationalism. 
He  must  in  time  have  made  his  mark  as  a  creative 


TOM    KETTLE  221 

economist  of  the  type  of  A.  E.,  who  has  done  so 
much  to  convince  Englishmen  that  the  economic 
reconstruction  of  Ireland  is  impracticable  as  long  as 
Irishmen  are  not  free  to  think,  feel,  and  act 
nationally. 

Then  came  the  War,  which  he  at  once  recognized 
as  a  struggle  to  the  death  for  the  world's  freedom. 
His  battle-song  gives  us  his  vision  of  its 
significance : — 

Then  lift  the  flag  of  the  Last  Crusade  ! 
And  fill  the  ranks  of  the  Last  Brigade  ! 
March  on  to  the  fields  where  the  world's  re-made, 
And  the  ancient  dreams  come  true  ! 

In  an  election  speech  in  1910  he  had  declared  that 
"for  his  part  he  preferred  German  invasion  to 
British  finance."  In  those  days  neither  he  nor  any- 
body else  knew  what  the  Prussian,  with  his  double 
streak  of  Tartar  ancestry,  was  capable  of  in  an 
occupied  territory.  Like  the  rest  of  the  world  he 
had  imagined  that  Germany  was  a  Civilized  Power. 
The  rape  of  Belgium  convinced  him  that  she  was  a 
Vulture  Power,  and  he  at  once  insisted  that  it  was 
Ireland's  sacred  duty  to  take  up  arms  as  England's 
Ally.  "  This  War  is  without  parallel,"  he  wrote  in 
August  1914,  "Britain,  France,  Russia  enter  it 
purged  from  their  past  sins  of  domination."  France 
is  right  now  as  she  was  wrong  in  1870.  England 
is  right  now  as  she  was  wrong  in  the  Boer  War. 
Russia  is  right  now  as  she  was  wrong  on  Bloody 
Sunday."  In  August  and  September  he  acted  as 
war  correspondent  for  the  Daily  News,  and  what  he 
saw  of  the  agony  of  Belgium  scared  his  very  soul. 
The  torture  of  a  little  peace-loving  nation,  the  tear- 
ing up  of  the  most  sacred  of  European  treaties,  the 
philosophic  lie  that  was  worked  out  to  justify  the 


222    AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

ruthless  greed  of  Germany — all  these  things  con- 
stituted, in  his  opinion,  a  direct  challenge  to 
Christian  civilization.  "  Holy  Ireland,"  he  felt, 
would  be  false  to  her  golden  gracious  past  if  she 
held  aloof  from  the  crusade.  Dark  Rosaleen,  his 
saint  of  saints,  must  not  only  girdle  her  lovers  with 
steel  for  the  fray  but  also  take  the  sword  of  the 
spirit  in  her  own  holy,  delicate  hands.  The  issue 
was  Christ  against  Odin  and  historic  wrongs  must 
be  forgotten  and  forgiven  until  it  was  decided. 
The  depth  of  his  religious  feeling,  the  intensity  of 
his  Catholicism,  made  his  zeal  for  righteous  warfare 
a  flaming  thing.  Like  all  deeply  religious  men,  he 
could  speak  of  his  religion  humorously.  His 
definition  of  the  difference  between  the  Catholic  and 
the  Protestant  faiths :  "  The  Catholics  take  their 
beliefs  table  d'hote,  the  Protestants  theirs  a  la  carte  " 
is  a  case  in  point.  There  was  scope  in  his  spiritual 
life  for  gladness  as  well  as  sadness ;  he  knew  that  a 
laugh,  like  a  tear,  could  be  a  spiritual  thing.  He 
wrote  a  witty  sermon  for  golfers  (he  would  have 
liked  to  be  a  "  plus  man "  at  that  great,  egotistical 
game)  in  which  they  were  advised  to  "  get  out  of 
the  bunker  of  mortal  sin  with  the  niblick  of  con- 
fession." He  described  the  priests,  to  disarm  an 
anti-clerical  Labourite,  as  members  of  a  spiritual 
Trade  Union.  In  spite  of  such  levities — nay, 
because  of  them — his  religion  was  from  first  to  last 
an  all-ruling  passion.  Forget  that,  and  you  lack 
the  master-key  to  his  personality  !  The  Catholic, 
he  thought,  had  a  vast  reserve  of  will-power  in  the 
land  of  day-springs,  the  celestial  Atlantis,  that  lay 
beyond  and  above  \hzjlammantia  moenta  mundi,  the 
inaccessible  ramparts  of  Space  and  Time.  In  war 
religion  was  the  mightiest  of  all  motives ;  an  Army 


TOM    KETTLE  223 

could  not  march  on  an  empty  belly  nor  fight  on  an 
empty  soul. 

Therefore  he  declared  war  on  the  felon  Power 
which  is  the  sole  blood-cemented  Empire  in  the 
world — its  sovereign  merely  a  commander-in-chief, 
its  aristocracy  a  war  staff,  its  people  drilled  soldiers  on 
leave,  its  capital  a  camp,  its  chief  industry  warfare. 
He  could  deal  with  Kultur  in  a  way  that  shows 
his  keen  wit  and  wide  reading  to  great  advantage. 
Here  is  a  characteristic  passage  (  "  The  Ways  of 
War,"  pp.  225-6). 

In  a  German  university  you  do  not  find  any  uniform,  general  life 
on  which  everybody  can  draw.  The  caste  system — on  which  all 
Prussia  is  founded — manifests  itself  very  soon.  Either  you  clip  off 
your  friends'  ears  in  duels,  keep  dogs,  abjure  learning,  and  absorb 
beer  for  two  or  three  years,  or  else  you  set  out  to  be  a  Herr  Doktor. 
By  steadily  accumulating  notes,  and  grimly  avoiding  fresh  air,  you 
arrive  at  the  moment  when  you  can  order  a  visiting  card  with  this 
wizard-title  on  it.  Then,  wearing  a  nimbus  of  adulation,  you  pass 
on  to  be  a  Privat  Docent,  and  ultimately  a  Herr  Professor.  Every- 
body's hat  is  off  to  you  ;  you  meet  with  no  real  criticism  or  free  thrust 
of  thought. 

Add  to  this  the  fact  that  German  is  a  singularly  difficult  language 
in  which  to  tell  the  truth  plainly,  even  if  you  should  desire  to  do  so 
Two  or  three  writers,  like  Schiller,  Schopenhauer,  and  Nietzsche, 
have  contrived  the  miracle  ;  but  the  general  impression  inflicted  on 
the  Latin  mind  by  German  literature  is  that  of  inadequately  cooked 
plum-duff.  One  understands  a  great  Socialist  like  Otto  Effertz 
turning  in  his  third  book  from  German  to  French  with  the  observa- 
tion :  "  Formerly  I  wrote  in  a  provincial  dialect.  I  now  experiment 
in  a  European  language."  A  brilliant  lady  of  my  acquaintance, 
who  suffered  fools  more  or  less  gladly  at  Marburg  and  Bonn,  is  of 
opinion  that  the  Prussian  reaches  his  most  exquisite  moment  of 
lyricism  when,  at  Christmas  or  Easter  he  ties  a  bow  of  blue  ribbon 
on  a  sausage  and  presents  it  to  his  beloved.  This  is  a  disputable 
view ;  but  it  does  indicate  certain  inadequacies  in  the  German 
apparatus  of  expression  which  really  exist. 

No  wonder  he  preferred  any  Englishman  to  any 
German,  and  felt  that  German  control  of  Ireland 
would  be  a  servitude  too  terrible  to  think  of.  He 


224    AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

had  not  the  conception  of  the  Englishman  as  a 
hard-minded,  gizzard-hearted,  money-grabbing 
creature,  which  seems  to  be  the  working  hypothesis 
of  so  many  Nationalist  politicians.  He  was 
essentially  a  European,  though 

Irish  of  the  Irish, 

Neither  Saxon  nor  Italian/ 

and  he  saw  the  Englishman  with  the  eyes  of  that 
greater  Ireland,  which  has  its  heart  in  the  ancient 
centre  and  its  circumference  on  all  the  seas— 
which  is  to-day  a  valiant  unit  in  the  world-wide 
war  against  Germany.  He  would  surely  have 
rejoiced  in  the  camaraderie  of  the  fighting  English- 
men with  the  fighting  Irish  Americans  which  he 
did  not,  alas,  live  to  see — though  he  beheld  a 
glorious  promise  of  that  larger  fellowship  in  the 
mutual  admiration  of  English  and  Irish  Regiments 
at  the  front  and  in  the  eagerness  of  the  Irishmen 
settled  in  England  to  volunteer  at  the  very 
beginning  of  the  war. 

He  who  had  distributed  anti-recruiting  pamphlets 
in  Dublin  during  the  South  African  War  (which 
was  for  all  that  a  fight  for  freedom,  for  Kruger 
was  making  the  Transvaal  a  miniature  Prussia  which 
had  to  be  destroyed)  flung  himself  heart  and  soul 
into  the  recruiting  campaign  in  Ireland.  He  made 
over  two  hundred  speeches  there  as  a  member  of 
what  he  called  "  The  Army  of  Freedom,"  and 
some  of  the  brilliant  phrases  and  epigrams  in  which 
he  set  Ireland's  duty  to  the  world  above  her  duty 
to  herself  will  long  be  remembered — e.g.  his 

1  Lines  which  Ferguson,  in  the  epilogue  of  his  amazing  epic  ballad  of 
The  Welshmen  of  Tirawky,  applies  to  the  descendants  of  "  Clan  London  " 
in  Ulster. 


TOM    KETTLE  225 

declaration  that  u  the  absentee  Irishmen  to-day  is 
the  Irishman  who  stays  at  home."  But  it  was  not 
enough  to  give  his  living  eloquejice ;  he  must  also 
give  his  life.  The  disasters  of  Easter  Week  con- 
vinced him  more  than  ever  that  his  attitude  was 
right,  and  he  used  all  his  influence  to  be  sent  at 
once  to  the  front.  And  so,  on  July  14,  1916,  he 
sailed  for  France.  His  letters  home  were  full  of 
vital  thoughts  and  sayings ;  the  horrors  of  modern 
warfare  appalled  him,  but  could  never  take  the 
edge  off  his  blithe  valiancy.  He  made  up  his  mind 
that,  when  peace  returned,  he  would  devote  his  life 
to  waging  war  on  war — that  hideous  anachronism 
which  must  not  be  allowed  to  survive  the  fall  of 
the  German  tyranny. 

Mrs  Kettle  quotes  in  her  Memoir  the  following 
account  of  his  brief  but  brilliant  career  as  an  officer 
in  one  of  the  Irish  Regiments  which  are  always 
regarded  as  corps  d*  elite  by  all  sound  judges  : — 

"  Kettle  was  one  of  the  finest  officers  we  had  with  us.  The  men 
worshipped  him,  and  would  have  followed  him  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  He  was  an  exceptionally  brave  and  capable  officer,  who 
had  always  the  interests  of  his  men  at  heart.  He  was  in  the  thick 
of  the  hard  righting  in  the  Guillemont-Ginchy  region.  I  saw  him 
at  various  stages  of  the  fighting.  He  was  enjoying  it  like  any  veteran, 
though  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  trade  of  war,  and  the 
horrible  business  of  killing  one's  fellows  was  distasteful  to  a  man 
with  his  sensitive  mind  and  kindly  disposition.  I  know  it  was  with 
the  greatest  reluctance  that  he  discarded  the  Professor's  gown  for  the 
soldier's  uniform,  but  once  the  choice  was  made  he  threw  himself 
into  his  new  profession,  because  he  believed  he  was  serving  Ireland 
and  humanity  by  so  doing.  i 

"  In  the  Guillemont  fighting  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  for  a  brief 
spell.  He  was  in  the  thick  of  a  hard  struggle,  which  had  for  its  object 
the  dislodgment  of  the  enemy  from  a  redoubt  they  held  close  to  the 
village.  He  was  temporarily  in  command  of  the  company,  and  he 
was  directing  operations  with  a  coolness  and  daring  that  marked  him 
out  as  a  born  leader  of  men.  He  seemed  always  to  know  what  was 
the  right  thing  to  do,  and  he  was  always  on  the  right  spot  to  order 


226     AN    IRISH    TORCH-BEARER 

the  doing  of  the  right  thing  at  the  right  moment.  The  men  under  his 
command  on  that  occasion  fought  with  a  heroism  worthy  of  their 
leader.  They  were  assailed  furiously  on  both  flanks  by  the  foe. 
They  resisted  all  attempts  to  force  them  back,,  and  at  the  right 
moment  they  pressed  home  a  vigorous  counter-attack  that  swept 
the  enemy  off  the  field. 

"  The  next  time  I  saw  him  his  men  were  again  in  a  tight  corner. 
They  were  advancing  against  the  strongest  part  of  the  enemy's 
position  in  that  region.  Kettle  kept  them  together  wonderfully 
in  spite  of  the  terrible  ordeal  they  had  to  go  through,  and  they  carried 
the  enemy's  position  in  record  time.  It  was  in  the  hottest  corner 
of  the  Ginchy  fighting  that  he  went  down.  He  was  leading  his  men 
with  a  gallantry  and  judgment  that  would  almost  certainly  have  won 
him  official  recognition  had  he  lived,  and  may  do  so  yet.  His  beloved 
Fusiliers  were  facing  a  deadly  fire  and  were  dashing  forward  irre- 
sistibly to  grapple  with  the  foe.  Their  ranks  were  smitten  by  a 
tempest  of  fire.  Men  went  down  right  and  left — some  never  to  rise 
again.  Kettle  was  among  the  latter.  He  dropped  to  earth  and 
made  an  effort  to  get  up.  I  think  he  must  have  been  hit  again. 
Anyhow,  he  collapsed  completely.  A  wail  of  anguish  went  up  from 
his  men  as  soon  as  they  saw  that  their  officer  was  down.  He  turned 
to  them  and  urged  them  forward  to  where  the  Huns  were  entrenched. 
They  did  not  need  his  injunction.  They  swept  forward  with  a  rush. 
Well  levelled  they  crashed  into  the  foe.  There  was  deadly  work 
indeed,  and  the  Huns  paid  dearly  for  the  loss  of  Kettle.  When  the 
battle  was  over  his  men  came  back  to  camp  with  sore  hearts.  They 
seemed  to  feel  his  loss  more  than  that  of  any  of  the  others.  The 
men  would  talk  of  nothing  else,  but  the  loss  of  their  "  own  Captain 
Tom,"  and  his  brother  officers  were  quite  as  sincere,  if  less  effusive, 
in  the  display  of  their  grief." 

Thus  he  fell,  this  Christian  soldier,  and  his 
example  is  a  torch  the  light  of  which  can  never 
go  out.  To  the  best  of  his  capacity  the  writer 
has  tried  to  trace  the  motives  of  his  wide-horizoned 
life,  setting  the  man  of  action  and  transaction  above 
the  man  of  thought  and  letters — as  must  be  in 
these  iron  times  when  what  men  do  and  are  counts 
for  more  than  what  they  think  and  write.  The 
central  impulse  of  his  whole  being  is  best  expressed 
in  the  beautiful  sonnet,  by  itself  enough  to  give  him 
the  poet's  immortality,  which  he  wrote  in  the  field 


TOM    KETTLE  227 

before  Guillemont  on  the  Somme  on  September  4, 
1916,  and  addressed  "  To  my  daughter  Betty,  the 
Gift  of  God  " :— 

In  wiser  days,  my  darling  rosebud,  blown 

To  beauty  proud  as  was  your  mother's  prime, 

In  that  desired,  delayed,  incredible  time, 

You'll  ask  why  I  abandoned  you,  my  own, 

And  the  dear  heart  that  was  your  baby  throne, 

To  dice  with  death  !    And,  oh  !  they'll  give  you  rhyme 

And  reason  :  some  will  call  the  thing  sublime, 

And  some  decry  it  in  a  knowing  tone. 

So  here,  while  the  mad  guns  curse  overhead, 

And  tired  men  sigh,  with  mud  for  couch  and  floor, 

Know  that  we  fools,  now  with  the  foolish  dead, 

Died  not  for  flag,  nor  King,  nor  Emperor, 

But  for  a  dream,  born  in  a  herdsman's  shed, 

And  for  the  secret  Scripture  of  the  poor. 


THE  HAPPY  ATHLETE 
RONALD  POULTON 

HE  appears  in  the  Roll  of  Oxford's  Honour 
as  Lieutenant  Ronald  William  Poulton 
Palmer  of  the  4th  Royal  Berkshire 
Regiment.  But  wherever  the  funera  nefunera  of 
the  oval  ball  are  customary,  men  or  boys  call 
him  Ronald  Poulton,  and  even  now,  when  he  has 
been  resting  for  more  than  three  years  in  his  wood- 
land grave  in  France,  find  it  hard  to  think  of  him 
as  one  of  the  lost  leaders  of  English  sportsmanship. 
He  was  famous  all  the  world  over  as  a  player  of 
Rugby  football,  as  the  most  original  and  dangerous 
three-quarter  who  has  ever  worn  the  Red  Rose. 
Critics  speak  of  Spenser  as  "  the  poets'  poet " 
and  with  equal  justice  we  may  say  that  Ronald 
Poulton  was  the  athlete's  athlete  in  his  special  sphere, 
for  no  player  of  what  H.  B.  Tristram  (that  thunder- 
bolt of  a  tackier)  called  "  the  finest  game  that  man 
ever  devised  "  appealed  so  poignantly  to  the  imagin- 
ative faculty  of  his  brothers-in-art.  "  Ever  since  I 
first  saw  him  at  Queen's  Club,"  said  a  Welsh  Inter- 
national, "  I  have  suspected  that  the  Welsh  game 
was  not  really  the  last  word  in  Rugby  strategy 
and  tactics,  and  that  a  touch  of  the  Poultonesque 
may  count  for  more  in  match-winning  than  all 
our  scientific  discipline." 

He  was  the  younger  son  of  Professor  E.  B.  Poulton 
of  Oxford,  and  his  athletic  promise  disclosed  itself 
in  early  boyhood.  He  went  to  the  Oxford  Pre- 
paratory School  and  Mr  C.  C.  Lynam,  the  Head- 
master, described  him  as  by  far  the  best  all-round 
athlete  who  had  ever  been  at  the  school.  Thence 


RONALD    POULTON    PALMER 

(LIEUTENANT,    4TH    ROYAL   BERKSHIRE    REGIMENT) 

?rom  a  photograph  taken  in  the  dressing-room  at  Twickenham  after 

his  last  International  match  on  English  soil  (1914) 


RONALD    POULTON  229 

he  went  to  Rugby,  entering  the  School  House, 
which  has  been  the  Delphi,  so  to  speak,  of  real 
football  ever  since  Young  Brooks  kicked  off  at 
"  Big  Side "  in  the  famous  school  story.  All  the 
famous  Public  Schools  have  their  special  pursuits 
which  every  boy  learns  instinctively ;  just  as  you 
breathe  in  Greek  at  Shrewsbury,  so  at  Rugby 
you  cannot  swallow  a  mouthful  of  air  without 
taking  in  the  true  doctrine  of  the  tackling  game. 
Ronald  Poulton  was  in  the  Rugby  XV  four 
successive  years,  and  he  was  captain  in  his  last 
season.  He  was  in  the  cricket  XI  in  1907 
and  1908.  At  the  annual  athletic  sports  he 
showed  extraordinary  all-round  form,  generally 
winning  both  the  jumps,  the  hurdles,  and  all 
the  short  races  up  to  and  including  the  quarter- 
mile.  But  he  did  not  live  by  games  alone  at 
Rugby  where,  ever  since  Arnold's  reign,  high  ideals 
of  intellectual  progress  and  social  service  have  been 
realized  by  generation  after  generation  of  those 
whose  ambition  it  has  been— 

Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent, 
Not  without  aim  to  go  round 
In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 
Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 

Ronald  Poulton  was  as  keen  a  student  of  science 
as  of  all  local  variants  of  the  modern  yu^ao-rt/c^, 
and  he  made  such  good  use  of  his  school-time, 
and  of  the  scientific  ability  he  inherited  from  his 
father  that  he  won  an  Exhibition  for  Science  at 
Balliol  in  1908.  At  Oxford  he  entered  the 
Engineering  School  which  had  just  been  established 
under  Professor  C.  F.  Jenkin,  taking  Honours  in 
the  Final  Examination  when  his  work  was  the 
best  sent  in.  And  it  was  at  Rugby  that  his  genius 


230       THE   HAPPY    ATHLETE 

for  friendship  began  to  express  itself  in  a  wise  and 
joyous  inclusiveness.  There  he  first  met  his  dearest 
and  most  intimate  friends  and  acquired  that  delight 
in  the  work  of  boys'  clubs  which  was  in  after 
years — at  Oxford  and  Reading  and  Manchester— 
the  chief  interest  of  his  many-sided  nature.  The 
scene  of  his  earliest  inspiration  was  always  very 
near  his  heart,  and  probably  the  greatest  treat  he 
could  allow  himself  was  a  visit  to  Rugby  and  the 
dear  friends  who  lived  there. 

Mr  Ernest  Ward,  who  is  an  encyclopaedia  of 
Rugger  history  and  has  the  whole  "  mistery "  (no 
4  y,'  please)  of  the  game  by  heart  and  all  its 
famous  practitioners  from  the  Vassall  era  onwards 
at  heart,  sends  the  following  notes  on  Ronald 
Poulton's  brief  but  felicitous  career  in  the  football 
field:— 

Ronnie  Poulton  was  one  of  the  greatest  three-quarters  of  all  time, 
perhaps  the  very  greatest.  But  he  was  more  than  that — he  was  an 
influence  that  kept  the  spirit  of  his  much-loved  game  sound  and 
sweet.  He  had  that  genius  for  captaincy  which  is  the  rarest  gift ; 
and  how  he  stood  for  a  victorious  morab  in  that  capacity  shall  be  told 
by  Mr  Temple  Gordon,  the  highest  living  authority  on  the  psychology 
of  the  game  : — 

"  I  have  always  considered  that  Ronnie  Poulton's  death  was  an 
immense  loss  not  only  to  English  football  but  to  England  His 
genuine,  unaffected  interest  in  his  fellow  man  of  whatever  class  made 
him  an  invaluable  link  between  what,  for  want  of  a  better  definition, 
we  call  the  classes  and  the  masses. 

"  When  playing  on  tour  against  other  countries  with  working  men 
on  the  side  his  unaffected  camaraderie)  entirely  free  from  any  trace  of 
snobbish  condescension,  made  him  an  asset  of  inestimable  value  to 
the  side  by  blending  it  before  the  game  (which  is  half  the  battle)  into 
an  harmonious  whole,  and  discounting  the  boredom  of  the  local  hotel 
and  the  dragging  hours  before  a  match. 

"  I  am  sure  that  few  men  have  been  more  genuinely  missed  and 
mourned  by  those  who  had  the  privilege  of  his  friendship  or  even  of 
his  acquaintance." 

This  was  how  Mr  Gordon  wrote  after  an  interval  of  three  years 
had  passed  since  Poulton  fell  on  the  Western  front. 


RONALD    POULTON  231 

Ronnie  Poulton  in  those  brief  six  years  or  thereabouts  between 
his  leaving  school  and  his  death  in  action  wrought  great  good.  It 
was  at  Michaelmas  1908  that  he  made  his  entrance  into  London  foot- 
ball in  a  quiet  little  practice  game  that  the  Harlequins  had  got  up 
on  Richmond  Athletic  ground.  Adrian  Stoop — the  organizing  genius 
of  the  Harlequins — in  one  of  his  visits  to  his  old  school  at  Rugby  had 
spotted  young  Poulton  and  bagged  him  for  the  Harlequins.  On  that 
afternoon  at  Richmond  an  old  enthusiast  met  with  this  welcome  from 
the  perpetual  president  of  the  Harlequins  (the  old  Rugby  warrior, 
W.  A.  Smith,  now,  as  Elia  would  have  had  it,  "  with  the  angels  ") — 
"  Come  and  see  a  born  England  player  !  "  Smith  was  quite  right. 
Adrian  put  Ronnie  through  his  facings  with  a  thoroughness  that  left 
no  doubt  about  his  ability.  And  Poulton  played  with  the  ease  of  a 
parade  :  he  had  been  given  to  winning  matches  "  off  his  own  bat  " 
at  Rugby  School.  And  he  then  reproduced  the  elasticity  of  his  school 
form.  We  saw  him  as  flying  man,  as  a  centre,  as  a  wing  ;  and  in 
every  position,  to  use  the  Baconian  tag,  he  "  succeeded  excellently 
well."  Safe  hands,  swiftness  in  the  get-off,  unchecked  pace  in  the 
swerve  and  when  he  changed  feet  for  the  side  step,  immense  initiative  : 
these  points,  so  brilliantly  matured  afterwards  at  Oxford,  were  all 
easily  marked  in  this  preliminary  view  of  Poulton  as  a  school  three- 
quarter. 

This  first  impression  was  unchanged  in  the  brief  years  that  he  was 
seen  winning  matches  for  Oxford,  for  England^  for  the  Harlequins, 
and  for  Liverpool.  There  vividly  remains  the  picture  of  a  fine  whole- 
some type  of  the  Public  School  boy  full  of  the  manliness  of  chivalry  ; 
the  elusive  stripling,  delightful  in  symmetry  of  limb,  with  his  flaxen 
hair  made  sport  of  by  the  breeze,  as  he  was  under  way  in  his  delightful 
run. 

Poulton  is  among  the  immortals  in  our  games.  What  courage 
Hodges  of  Sedbergh  had  to  disclose  to  leave  Poulton  out  of  the  Fifteen 
in  his  first  year  at  Oxford.  But  what  else  could  Hodges  have  done  ? 
He  had  the  four  old  Blues  and  Internationals  as  a  legacy  from  Hoskin 
— Vassall,  Tarr,  Martin,  and  Gilray.  And  he  would  not  disturb  the 
line  even  to  put  Poulton  in.  But  in  avoiding  one  mistake  he  fell 
into  another.  He  played  an  unsound  man,  Vassall,  at  Queen's  Club 
in  the  one  match  of  the  Rugby  season  which  is  so  strenuous  and 
searching  that  the  cleverest  patching-up  will  never  insure  the  crocked- 
up  player  against  a  break-down.  Vassall  broke  down  in  the  first  five 
minutes,  and  at  least  three  certain  tries  were  lost  because  he  could 
not  keep  his  place  in  a  combined  attack.  However,  Poulton  came 
to  his  own  in  the  following  year.  Everyone  will  recall  what  he  did 
on  the  left  wing  against  Cambridge  in  his  first  Inter-'Varsity  match  : 
how  he  worked  with  George  Cunningham  and  Colin  Gilray  and  how 
he  scored  five  tries — a  personal  record  in  Oxford  and  Cambridge 


232       THE    HAPPY    ATHLETE 

Rugger  and  one  that  is  likely  to  stand.  His  second  appearance  was 
almost  as  great  a  triumph.  And  his  third  appearance  in  the  fateful 
match  at  Queen's  Club  was  really  the  greatest  triumph  of  all  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  slipped  and  hurt  himself  badly  before  half-time 
and  was  useless  to  his  side  for  the  rest  of  the  game.  "  It  is  not  possible 
to  name  a  man/'  wrote  a  skilled  eye-witness  of  his  last  match  as  a 
'Varsity  footballer,  "  whose  presence  so  obviously  made  so  much 
difference  to  his  side.  This  time  he  was  captain  of  a  team  expected 
to  lose,  and  the  performances  of  Cambridge  before  and  after  the  game 
at  Queen's  justified  the  opinion  of  the  prophets.  Poulton  demoralized 
his  opponents  in  the  first  five  minutes,  and  the  game  was  won  for  his 
side.  Of  course,  he  was  well  supported,  particularly  by  Knott,  the 
stand-off  half,  and  his  forwards.  Knott  fielded  everything  and  masked 
his  game  like  a  second  Adrian  Stoop.  It  was  from  a  well-placed 
forward  kick  of  Knott's  that  the  first  try  came.  The  defence  thought 
Ke  would  pass,  but  Poulton  knew  better.  He  followed  the  ball  with 
marvellous  speed  and  got  it  easily,  running  over  the  line,  with  every- 
body planted  and  looking  on.  The  demoralization  of  Cambridge,  after 
two  other  tries  had  been  scored  against  them  by  the  Knott-Poulton 
opportunism,  was  shown  by  the  tactics  of  the  Light  Blue  threes. 
Though  a  very  speedy  and  skilful  lot,  they  would  line  up  straight 
across  the  ground  in  defensive  formation  even  when  they  were  inside 
the  Oxford  25 — for  fear  that  Knott  and  Poulton  should  get  going 
even  there." 

He  got  his  English  cap  a  year  before  he  won  his  Blue  ;  in  all  he 
played  in  17  Internationals  and  he  captained  England  in  the  last 
International  match  before  the  War,  leading  his  side  to  a  great  victory 
at  Inverleith ;  a  thrilling  match,  many  of  the  players  in  which  have 
long  ago  made  the  final  sacrifice  for  King  and  country.  C.  J.  B. 
Marriott  (Cambridge  and  England),  whose  playing  days  were  in  the 
Harry  Vassall  era,  wrote  the  following  appreciation  of  Poulton  as  an 
England  player :  "No  one  ever  equalled  him  in  his  destructive  style 
and  opportunism.  As  a  captain  he  was  a  born  leader ;  never  over- 
weeningly  confident,  never  flurried,  and  always  at  his  best  in  pulling 
his  team  together  when  the  score  was  against  them.  These  attributes 
were  fully  disclosed  in  the  three  victories  of  England  in  1914  when 
in  each  match  at  certain  periods  of  the  game  the  points  were  against 
England." 

Poulton  himself  had  a  humorous  way  of  describing  his  experiences 
in  International  matches.  When  England  won  her  first  match  against 
Wales  in  Wales  after  a  lapse  of  eighteen  years,  the  theatre  of  warfare 
was  the  Cardiff  Arms  Park,  and  the  weather  recalled  the  saying  of  a 
spectator  overheard  some  years  before — "  In  Cardiff  when  it  rains,  it 
raineth."  Poulton  wrote  as  follows  :  "  On  assembling  at  breakfast 


RONALD    POULTON  233 

we  found  that  rain  was  falling  steadily  and  all  hope  of  a  dry  ground 
and  ball  was  given  up.  The  morning  was  spent  in  animated  dis- 
cussions of  numerous  devices  for  winning  the  match,  none  of  which 
by  any  chance  came  off  during  the  game  itself,  except  the  oft-repeated 
injunction  from  our  captain  :  '  Remember  your  feet  and  use  them, 
and  don't  forget  the  watch-word  ' — but  that,  I  fear,  is  unprintable. 
However,  after  a  game  played  on  a  ground  where  the  blades  of  grass 
seemed  with  difficulty  to  be  holding  their  heads  above  the  ever-rising 
flood,  England  emerged  unrecognizable  but  victorious  by  12  points 
to  nothing."  Of  the  visit  of  the  South  Africans  he  wrote  :  "  I  suppose, 
to  be  in  keeping  with  Imperial  imagery  and  ideas,  we  must  call  the 
members  of  this  team  our  children,  and  fine  strapping  children  they 
are  !  You  feel  there  must  be  something  extraordinary  about  the 
climate  of  South  Africa  when  you  are  easily  given  twenty  yards  in  a 
hundred  by  a  M'Hardy  or  a  Stegmann,  when  you  see  the  ball  propelled 
infinite  distances  with  perfect  accuracy  by  a  Morkel,  and  when  you 
feel  the  weight  of  a  Morkel,  a  Van  Vuuren  or  a  Shum  deposited  on  your 
chest."  He  could  be  very  drastic  in  his  criticism  of  the  national  XV 
of  which  he  was  a  member.  After  England  and  Ireland  at  Dublin 
in  1913,  though  England  won,  he  cordially  agreed  with  the  pithy 
comment  of  one  of  the  English  selectors.  "  Well,  I've  only  seen  one 
team  play  worse  than  you  did  in  my  life,  and  I  saw  that  team  this 
afternoon."  He  spoke  out  boldly  against  English  lack  of  scrummage 
science  in  getting  the  ball  and  heeling  out.  He  blamed  the  slow  heeling 
of  the  forwards  and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  the  slowness  of  the  English 
scrum  half  for  the  unsatisfactory  play  of  the  English  back  division 
as  a  whole  during  that  season.  These  faults,  he  said,  "  gave  the 
opposing  three-quarters  time  to  come  up  and  smother  our  attack." 
His  suggestions  fell  on  fruitful  soil  and  in  the  following  season,  when 
the  said  faults  had  been  amended,  he  led  England  to  victory  in  all  her 
international  matches. 

He  was  good  at  all  the  games  he  tried  his  hand 
at.  At  cricket  he  made  some  runs  for  Rugby  v. 
Marlborough  at  Lords  in  1907  and  1908,  and  he 
was  a.  brilliant  inside  forward  in  the  Oxford  Hockey 
team  (three  years).  But  Rugger  was  his  first  love 
and  his  last.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  War  his  keen 
and  imaginative  intelligence  would  have  gone  on 
with  the  task,  begun  by  Adrian  Stoop,  of  raising 
the  standard  of  Rugger  science  and  artistry,  and 
forming  a  national  English  style  which  would  give 
full  scope  for  the  individual  superiority  in  pace  and 


234       THE   HAPPY    ATHLETE 

power  of  the  English  players.  The  principle  on 
which  he  would  have  based  this  process  of  evolution 
— that  the  offensive  is  the  best  form  of  defence, 
ceteris  paribus — is  as  sound  in  co-operative  games 
as  in  warfare. 

After  leaving  Oxford,  his  uncle,  the  late  Rt. 
Hon.  G.  W.  Palmer  of  Marlston  House  near 
Newbury,  invited  him  to  enter  Huntley  & 
Palmer's  factory  in  Reading  with  the  view  of 
ultimately  joining  the  Directorate.  He  took  a  small 
house  near  the  works  and  began  his  duties  in 
January  1912.  It  was  a  strenuous  life  of  early 
rising  and  working  late,  for  he  was  expected  to 
acquire  a  thorough  knowledge  of  every  branch  of 
one  of  the  greatest  commercial  enterprises  in 
England — a  concern  of  far-reaching  tentacles,  for 
hungry  folk  munch  Huntley  &  Palmers'  biscuits 
in  the  remotest  corners  of  the  civilized  world.  The 
Rugby  sense  of  social  brotherhood  also  found  ex- 
pression, and  he  took  the  keenest  interest  in  the 
athletic  clubs  connected  with  the  factory  and  indeed 
in  all  that  concerned  the  welfare  of  the  men 
employed  there.  Like  so  many  of  the  young  men 
of  his  generation,  he  thought  deeply  about  the 
widespread  Labour  unrest  of  the  years  before 
the  War  and  felt  that  no  undertaking  had  a  right 
to  flourish  which  did  not  produce  happy  lives  as 
well  as  its  special  commodity.  He  himself  took 
part  in  the  men's  sport,  played  in  the  factory 
cricket  and  football  teams,  and  would  take  the 
Socker  XI  for  long  training  walks.  "Rugger" 
was  not  played  at  the  Factory  ;  Reading  is  one  of 
the  southern  centres  of  the  rival  code.  But  he 
secretly  hoped  that  he  might  have  his  own  home- 
made fifteen  there  some  day.  With  all  this  work, 


RONALD    POULTON  235 

into  which  he  threw  himself  heart  and  soul,  he 
found  time  to  do  a  great  deal  for  the  development 
of  a  Boys'  Club  in  the  parish  of  St  John's.  To 
an  Oxford  friend  who  chaffed  him  about  his 
business  career  he  said  with  a  laugh  :  "  Well,  if 
I'm  not  a  man  of  business  yet,  I'm  a  busy  man." 
After  a  year  and  a  half  of  this  full  and  varied  life, 
sweetened  and  dignified  by  so  much  personal 
service,  he  thought  he  knew  enough  of  the  biscuit- 
making  business  at  that  stage,  and  it  was  decided 
that  he  should  gain  a  wider  knowledge  of  engineer- 
ing before  finally  settling  down  to  the  life's  work 
he  had  found  (or,  rather,  which  had  found  him), 
when  he  hoped  to  renew  and  strengthen  the  ties 
of  affection  that  already  bound  him  to  the  men 
and  their  sons. 

At  his  uncle's  advice  he  settled  in  Manchester  and 
worked  in  Mather  &  Platt's,  attending  courses  at 
the  Municipal  School  of  Technology,  of  which  his 
brother-in-law,  Mr  J.  C.  Maxwell  Garnett,  was 
Principal.  He  had  only  just  begun  work  at 
Manchester  when  his  uncle,  who  seemed  to  be  in 
perfect  health  and  had  made  all  arrangements  for  a 
winter's  voyage,  was  seized  with  a  stroke  and  died 
in  a  few  days,  without  ever  recovering  consciousness. 
Thus  ended  the  association  between  the  older  and 
the  younger  man  which  had  meant  so  much  for  both 
of  them.  They  loved  and  understood  one  another 
and  had  looked  forward,  with  a  confidence  that  ever 
increased  as  their  mutual  understanding  and  sympathy 
deepened,  to  many  years  of  happy  co-operation  in 
the  conduct  of  a  vast  business  on  huntane  lines,  after 
the  younger  man's  expected  return  to  Reading  in 
the  autumn  of  1914.  Ronald  Poulton  became  heir 
to  a  considerable  income,  with  a  deferred  life  interest 


236       THE   HAPPY    ATHLETE 

in  a  large  estate  and,  under  the  terms  of  the  will, 
took  his  uncle's  and  his  mother's  maiden  name  of 
Palmer.  Thus  a  future  of  far-reaching  influence 
was  assured,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
famous  young  athlete,  had  he  lived,  would  have 
looked  upon  his  position  as  a  trust  to  be  administered 
in  accordance  with  the  high  civic  ideals  of  his  uncle, 
who  was  the  maker  of  modern  Reading  and  a  man 
who  combined  a  genius  for  practical  affairs  with  an 
imaginative  insight  into  the  larger  privileges  and 
responsibilities  of  the  latter-day  captain  of  industry. 
The  Varsity  wit  who  said  that  "  Ronald  had  taken 
the  biscuit  and  the  tin  as  well  "  had  no  idea  of  the 
spiritual  heritage  he  had  received  from  his  honoured 
uncle.  Had  he  lived  into  the  Reconstruction  era, 
he  would  have  been  one  of  the  influences  that  make 
revolution  unnecessary.  For,  as  captain  of  a  foot- 
ball team  or  as  director  of  a  factory,  he  would  always 
have  been  a  man  among  men,  holding  the  gift  of 
leadership  by  force  of  character,  capacity,  and  that 
instinct  of  camaraderie  which  reduces  all  "  class- 
conscious"  talk  to  absurdity. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  this  great  accession 
of  wealth  and  consequence  was  not  allowed  to 
interrupt  his  engineering  studies  for  a  moment.  He 
remained  hard  at  work  in  Manchester  until  June 
1914,  when  he  spent  a  month  in  visiting  various 
engineering  firms  in  the  North  of  England.  As 
might  have  been  expected  from  his  father's  son,  he 
saw  the  need  of  a  closer  alliance  between  science  and 
industry  in  this  country,  where  rule-of-thumb 
methods  and  cut-throat  competition  have  so  far  pre- 
vented a  nation  of  shopkeepers  from  becoming  a 
nation  of  multiple-shopkeepers.  There  was  nothing 
dull  for  him  in  his  work  at  Manchester,  in  which 


RONALD    POULTON  237 

theory  and  practice  were  so  justly  combined.  If  it 
had  been  dull,  he  would  have  stuck  to  it — to  honour 
the  wishes  of  his  uncle  and  as  a  duty  he  owed  to 
himself.  He  had  just  begun  to  enjoy  a  summer 
vacation  before  taking  up  his  permanent  work  at 
Reading,  when  the  call  of  his  country  came.  Like 
the  rich  young  man  in  the  Gospel,  he  was  suddenly 
asked  to  give  up  all — -wealth,  popularity,  rest  after 
toil,  friendship,  and  even  love — and  follow  the  cross 
into  a  bleak  desert  of  being  bordering  on  eternity. 
He  gave  up  all  and  followed. 

He  had  belonged  to  the  O.T.C.  in  Oxford  and  on 
first  taking  up  his  residence  in  Reading  had  joined 
the  Berkshire  Territorials.  When  War  was  expected, 
but  not  yet  declared,  they  were  asked  if  they  would 
volunteer  for  service  abroad.  Of  all  vocations  the 
soldier's  had  least  attraction  for  him;  he  thought 
war  a  bitter  anachronism.  But  he  had  no  doubts  as 
to  the  justice  of  his  country's  cause,  "  saw  his  duty 
as  a  dead-sure  thing,"  and  at  once  volunteered  and 
entered  on  the  course  of  training.  He  had  only 
been  at  the  front  just  over  five  weeks  when  he  was 
instantaneously  killed  by  a  stray  bullet  at  12.20  a.m. 
on  May  5,  1915,  when  on  duty  as  works  manager 
in  the  trenches.  It  was  a  foggy  night,  and  he  was 
out  on  the  roof  of  a  dug-out,  looking  at  work  that 
had  been  done,  when  a  stray  shot,  which  might  have 
been  a  ricochet  off  the  wire  in  front  of  the  trench, 
entered  his  right  side  just  below  the  arm-pit.  The 
day  before  he  had  written  the  following  letter  to 
his  sister,  Mrs  Maxwell  Garnett : — 

Thank  you  so  much  for  the  lovely  chocolate  which  arrived  last  night 
up  here.  It  was  sweet  of  you  to  write,  and  also  your  letters  are  most 
welcome.  Just  as  I  was  proceeding  to  open  them  at  about  twelve 
p.m.,  as  I  was  at  work  all  the  early  part  of  the  night,  we  had  to  "  stand 
to  "  as  a  Brigade  order — that  meant  all  being  out.  It  was  maddening 


238       THE   HAPPY    ATHLETE 

— three  hours  messing  about  doing  nothing.  Then  I  got  to  bed  at 
four,  and  was  woken  up  and  pulled  out,  because  we  were  being  shelled, 
and  it  is  safer  to  be  under  the  parapet  than  in  a  dug-out.  They  were 
shelling  a  house  just  in  the  middle  of  our  trench,  which  they  think 
we  use  for  sniping  (and  so  we  do).  But  the  first  four  shots  hit  our 
trench.  The  first  went  right  through  one  officer's  dug-out,  but  luckily 
he  was  the  one  officer  on  duty,  so  he  wasn't  hit.  Luck  !  He'd  have 
been  in  tiny  bits  !  Another  smashed  the  dug-out  of  our  cook,  but  he 
was  out,  too.  The  house  had  what  was  left  of  its  chimney  piece 
[evidently  "  stack  "  intended]  removed,  and  another  big  hole  in  the 
roof.  That's  about  all.  Now  its  lovely,  as  I  sit  in  our  mess,  which 
is  dug  down  out  of  sight,  but  has  a.  lovely  back  view  of  the  country 
to  the  rear — a  large  root-field,  a  typical  avenue  main  road  to  the 
right,  a  hill  with  a  ruined  chateau  in  front.  I  am  getting  a  bit  tired 
of  the  view.  But  its  safer  than  looking  in  front. 

Cheeriness  and  a  gentle  humour  of  circumstance 
characterise  all  the  letters  he  wrote  home  to  relations 
and  friends.  His  brother  officers  bore  witness  to 
the  love  and  confidence  he  inspired.  "  He's  just  a 
glorious  chap  to  have  by  one,"  the  chaplain  of  the 
Berkshires  had  said  a  few  days  before  to  the  Bishop 
of  Pretoria  who  buried  him.  He  had  been  a 
tremendous  help  and  stand-by  to  the  "  Padre "  in 
his  difficult  and  never-ending  work.  The  following 
tribute  from  a  very  close  Regimental  friend  has  a 
touching  finality : — 

Those  of  us  who  have  known  him  for  a  long  while,  and  loved  him, 
can  enter  just  a  little  into  the  grief  of  his  own  people.  You  will  have 
heard  the  details  of  his  death.  It  is  a  great  consolation  to  know  that 
he  died  painlessly  for  England,  beloved  by  every  one  in  his  Regiment. 
When  I  went  round  his  old  Company  as  they  stood  to,  at  dawn,  almost 
every  man  was  crying.  He  will  always  be  an  inspiration  to  those  of 
us  who  remain.  He  will  be  laid  in  the  wood  this  afternoon  in  soil 
which  is  already  consecrated  to  the  memory  of  many  brave  soldiers. 
The  oak-trees  are  just  coming  out,  and  the  spring  flowers ;  and  the 
place  would  remind  you  much  of  the  woods  round  Oxford. 

He  was  in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  and  he  died 
among  men  who  knew  his  true  worth,  for  many 
of  the  Berkshires  had  been  his  comrades  during 


RONALD    POULTON  239 

the   apprenticeship   he   had  so   faithfully  served  at 
Reading. 

It  often  happens  that  the  athlete,  like  the  actor,  is 
immortal  only  for  a  moment.  His  personality  may 
only  survive  in  a  single  remembered  episode — as 
G.  F.  Grace's  does  in  the  wonderful  catch  that  dis- 
missed Bonnor  from  the  loftiest  skier  ever  seen  at 
Lords  or  Basil  Maclear's  in  the  amazing  eighty-yards 
run  that  gave  Ireland  a  try  against  the  first  team  of 
South  African  invaders  in  a  most  thrilling  match. 
But  Ronald  Poulton  will  always  receive  the  larger 
tribute  of  remembrance  which  is  granted  to  the 
undying  masters  of  our  national  games.  Rugby 
football  is  the  hardest  and  most  vigorous  of  all  the 
Ludi  Humaniores  which  are  essentially  a  part  of 
English  life.  It  is  a  game  which  can  only  be  played 
by  gentlemen ;  for  the  referee,  who  controls  a  match 
and  lives  in  the  spirit  of  it,  cannot  hope  to  see  a 
tenth  of  all  that  happens  in  a  close  ding-dong 
struggle.  So  it  has  always  been,  and  always  will 
be,  an  antidote  to  the  professionalism  which  sets  the 
prize  above  the  play  and  cannot  lose  without  rancour 
or  repining.  Cricket  and  football  and  the  other 
English  team-games  are  modern  substitutes  for  the 
hard  exercises  of  the  mediaeval  knights,  and  if  either 
the  hardness  or  the  chivalry  goes  out  of  them,  then 
they  cease  to  provide  the  training  in  moral  which  is 
the  most  vital  part  of  true  education.  The  fact 
remains  that  the  most  important  element  in  war — 
and  in  peace  for  that  matter — and  the  most  difficult 
to  make  sure  of,  is  the  moral  element,  and  for  that 
there  is  nothing  like  the  old  English  school  tradition 
which  makes  so  much  use  of  the  hard,  exhilarating 
discipline  of  team-games.  Ronald  Poulton  will  live 


240       THE   HAPPY    ATHLETE 

in  the  national  remembrance  as  a  player  of  genius 
who  took  all  the  opportunities  afforded  him  by  the 
glorious  uncertainty  of  his  game  and  turned  them  to 
account  with  ruthless  originality — so  that  the  enemy 
could  not  guess  his  intention  until  it  was  too  late 
to  prevent  it  being  realized.  But  he  will  also  be 
.remembered  as  the  most  chivalrous  of  players — one 
who  never  used  his  strength  tyrannically  nor  ever 
dreamed  of  ignoring  the  spirit  of  the  Rugger  code 
and  indulging  in  the  sharp  practices  that  are  just 
within  its  strict  letter.  And  he  valued  his  game  not 
so  much  for  the  chances  it  gave  him  of  personal 
distinction  as  for  the  grim  beauty  of  its  swift  com- 
binations and,  even  more,  for  the  fact  that  class 
distinctions  vanished  in  its  fierce  medley — for  any 
man  can  play  Rugger  if  he  can  play  it  as  a  gentleman. 
He  knew  it  was  the  most  democratic  of  diversions 
simply  because  it  is  the  most  aristocratic. 

When  peace  returns  we  shall  go  again  to 
Twickenham  and  Inverleith  and  other  fields  where 
the  Four  Nations  cultivate  the  full  rigour  of  Rugby 
football.  And  all  who  ever  saw  Ronald  Poulton 
at  his  best  will  have  a  fleeting  vision  of  his  wonder- 
ful dash  for  the  goal-line  of  the  friendly  enemy— 
the  ball  held  in  outstretched  hands,  swinging  this 
way  and  that ;  the  sprint  that  was  a  series  of  twists 
and  wriggles  and  ever  so  much  faster  than  it  looked  ; 
the  sudden  pass  in  an  unexpected  direction  or  the 
huge  kick  into  touch  or  the  lightning  swift  cut- 
through  to  a  certain  try ;  and  the  grave,  intent  look 
which  read  the  whole  position  at  a  glance  and 
enabled  the  runner  to  do  the  right  thing  in  the  right 
moment  in  the  right  way.  A  Poulton  try  was 
by  far  the  most  fascinating  thing  in  Rugby  football. 
His  father,  the  famous  professor,  once  complained 


RONALD    POULTON  241 

that  his  most  important  lecture  might  get  a  para- 
graph here  and  there  in  the  newspapers,  whereas 
any  try  scored  by  Ronald  would  be  sure  of  a 
column  everywhere.  The  truth  is  that  one  was 
conscious  of  a  great  personality  behind  it  all ;  there 
was  an  incidental  greatness,  a  crowd-compelling 
power,  in  all  he  did  on  the  football-field.  As  has 
been  shown,  he  would  have  excelled  in  larger  pur- 
suits but  for  the  unlucky  bullet  that  was  turned  by 
the  twanging  wire ;  in  war  and  in  peace  he  would 
have  lived  his  life  to  high  and  unselfish  purposes. 
Oxford  has  produced  no  sweeter  or  stronger  per- 
sonality in  our  day,  and  the  lines  dedicated  to  the 
Happy  Warrior  by  Sir  Henry  Newbolt  should  be 
his  epitaph : — 

He  that  has  left  hereunder 

The  signs  of  his  release, 
Feared  not  the  battle's  thunder, 

Nor  hoped  that  wars  should  cease  ; 
No  hatred  set  asunder 

His  warfare  from  his  peace. 


THE  MAN  ABOUT  TOWN 
THOMAS  VADE-WALPOLE 

WHAT  is  it  that  makes  the  social  favourite  ? 
The  question  has  often  been  discussed  by 
the  novelists  of  manners,  from  Thackeray 
to  the  latest  wanderer  in  the  purlieus  of  Sinister 
Street,  but  has  never  been  finally  answered.  The 
man  of  letters  who  is  never  received  by  society  as  an 
arbiter  elegantiarum  for  various  reasons — chief  of 
them  his  weakness  for  pulling  up  his  emotions  by 
the  root  in  order  to  see  how  and  why  they  are 
growing — invariably  takes  a  prejudiced  view  of  the 
matter.  So  it  comes  about  that  in  all  ages  the 
popular  man  about  town  (whether  the  town  be 
London  or  Paris  or  Vienna  or  New  York)  has 
always  been  written  down  as  a  selfish  and  shallow 
creature  who  is  incapable  of  deep  feeling  or  hard 
work  and  owes  his  popularity  to  some  petty 
inexplicable  gift  for  reflecting  the  predilections  of  the 
brainless  and  heartless  majority.  Yet,  if  we  look 
through  the  social  history  of  London,  we  find  that 
its  favourites  have  always  been  men  of  commanding 
personality — men  of  whom  it  was  commonly  said 
by  their  critical  contemporaries  that  they  might  have 
done  anything  or  everything,  if  only  they  had  not 
wasted  all  their  time  and  energy  on  amusing  them- 
selves and  their  world.  In  every  famous  man  about 
town,  from  Beau  Brummel  on,  we  discern  the  linea- 
ments of  a  man  and  are  forced  to  conclude  that 
success  in  the  art  of  living  sociably  requires  as  high 
qualifications  as  are  possessed  by  the  successful 
politician  or  captain  of  industry  or  painter  or  poet. 
And  if  the  social  satirist  thinks  otherwise,  it  is 


THOMAS    VADE-\YALPOLE 

(LIEUTENANT,  IOTH  GORDON  HIGHLANDERS) 


TOMMY    WALPOLE  243 

because  he  is  under  the  delusion  that  the  whole  art 
of  living  should  be  subordinated  to  the  science  of 
earning  a  livelihood.  What  a  tedious  world  it 
would  be  if  the  life  of  each  great  capital  (in  which  a 
pleasure-city  must  be  incorporated)  had  not  its  centre 
of  levity  as  well  as  its  centre  of  gravity  ! 

Thomas  Vade-Walpole  (known  as  "  Tadpole  "  to 
his  friends)  was  as  good  an  example  as  one  could 
wish  to  meet  of  the  popular  man  about  town.  He 
knew  everybody  and  everybody  knew  him ;  no 
social  function  was  complete  without  his  presence. 
The  charm  of  his  personality  was  indefinable,  though 
definitely  felt  even  by  the  acquaintance  of  an  hour. 
The  kindest  and  most  unselfish  of  men,  he  never 
took  the  slightest  advantage  of  his  popularity  to 
make  others  feel  out  of  the  picture.  On  the 
contrary,  he  would  take  the  greatest  pains  to  put  a 
stranger  who  felt  "  out  of  it "  at  his  ease,  and  he 
was  rather  proud  of  the  number  of  lasting  friendships 
he  had  brought  into  being  by  bringing  people  of 
differing  temperaments  together.  Perhaps  the  secret 
of  his  social  success  is  communicated  in  the  saying  of 
a  friend :  "  Tom  Walpole  was  always  too  busy 
thinking  about  his  pals  ever  to  think  about  himself." 
He  was  a  most  witty  talker,  and  his  witticisms  were 
all  the  more  effective  because  always  spontaneous 
and  arising  out  of  the  situation — so  that  they  had 
the  appeal  of  the  dramatic  mot  juste,  the  saying  that 
seems  the  only  thing  that  ought  to  have  been  said 
on  a  particular  occasion.  Self-assertion  in  conversa- 
tion, which  is  always  a  little  resented,  seemed  to  him 
bad  manners.  He  was  content  if  his  own  talk 
should  just  be  ozone  in  the  oxygen  of  lively  general 
conversation.  He  could  administer  a  snub  which 


244    THE    MAN    ABOUT    TOWN 

made  the  offender  feel  as  if  a  load  of  bricks  had 
descended  on  his  head — but  he  only  used  this 
weapon  when  a  real  offence  had  been  committed, 
such  as  the  attempt  to  circulate  a  malicious  slander 
which  seemed  to  him  the  meanest  and  most  detest- 
able of  social  sins.  Once  he  advised  a  young  fellow 
with  his  way  to  make  in  the  world,  to  acquire  "  as 
many  useful  enemies  as  possible."  But  he  himself 
never  practised  what  he  preached  on  that  occasion. 
He  had  many  activities  undreamed  of  by  any  save 
his  most  intimate  friends,  for  he  had  a  very  strong 
distaste  for  the  window-dressing  methods  of  the 
person  who  likes  to  pose  as  a  down-to-date 
Admirable  Crichton.  On  the  whole  he  may  be 
taken  as  a  model  of  the  social  favourite  in  these 
latter  days  when  society  is  inclusive  rather  than 
exclusive  and  its  leaders  of  either  sex  are  so  often 
deeply  interested  in  the  great  movements  of  art, 
philosophy  and  social  reform. 

He  was  the  elder  son  of  the  late  Henry  Spencer 
Vade-Walpole  of  Stagbury,  Surrey  and  Freethorpe, 
Norfolk,  and  his  wife,  Frances  Selina,  one  of  the 
Bourkes  of  Vrey  and  Jamaica.  On  the  death  of 
his  father  in  1913  he  became  heir-presumptive  to 
the  two  Baronies  of  Walpole.  Owing  to  constant 
ill-health,  one  symptom  of  which  was  a  terrible 
migraine  which  made  continued  brain-work  im- 
possible, he  was  unable  to  follow  the  family  custom 
and  go  to  Eton  and  Oxford.  He  was  educated  at 
home,  and  among  other  proofs  of  intellectual 
initiative  obtained  by  his  own  exertions  a  real  grasp 
of  chemistry — had  he  been  able  to  pursue  this  study 
without  interruption,  he  would  certainly  have 
gained  scientific  distinction,  for  his  flair  in  the 


TOMMYWALPOLE  245 

application  of  principles  was  strongly  marked.  In 
1895  (when  he  was  in  his  i6th  year)  he  had  the 
unusual  experience  of  being  bitten  by  a  mad  dog, 
which  necessitated  a  visit  to  the  Pasteur  Institute  in 
Paris.  He  showed  the  greatest  fortitude  and  a 
calmness  touched  with  humour  in  this  terrible 
ordeal.  The  cause  of  his  ill-health  baffled  the  most 
famous  doctors,  and  many  cures  were  tried  in  vain 
for  the  agonizing  headaches  (very  like  those  which 
troubled  the  scholarly  and  athletic  hero  of  Hard 
Cash]  which  at  times  rendered  him  incapable  of 
mental  exertion.  When  he  was  nineteen  Sir 
William  Gowers  advised  a  long  sea-voyage,  and  he 
went  for  a  tour  round  the  world  by  himself.  Two 
years  later  he  circumnavigated  Africa.  During 
those  tours,  which  delighted  his  adventurous  soul, 
he  had  many  curious  experiences,  met  many  interest- 
ing people,  and  collected  a  treasure  of  out-of-the- 
way  anecdote  which  in  after  years  added  to  the 
varied  charm  of  his  talk — not  that  he  ever  resembled 
the  raconteur  in  his  "  anecdotage  "  who  bores  people 
by  spatch-cocking  little  mechanical  tales  into  every 
casual  conversation.  In  1902  his  father  came  to  live 
in  London,  and  it  was  then  that  he  began  to  prove  him- 
self so  notable  an  expert  in  the  art  of  social  living. 

Two  tributes  from  intimate  friends  not  only  throw 
light  on  his  engaging  personality  but  also  show  how 
he  gained  athletic  and  literary  fame  in  spite  of  that 
handicap  of  ill-health  which  would  have  reduced 
a  less  courageous  and  enduring  man  to  all-round 
insignificance.  The  first,  written l  by  Mr  Lionel 
Martin,  reveals  him  as  a  champion  cyclist : — 

By  the  death  of  poor  Tadpole  the  Bath  Road  Club  has  lost  one  of 
the  best  of  good  sportsmen  and  the  cheeriest  of  friends. 

1  Printed  in  the  Bath  Road  Newt. 


246    THE   MAN   ABOUT   TOWN 

He  joined  the  Bath  Road  Club  in  1899,  about  which  date  I  first 
met  him  in  connection  with  track  racing,  in  which  we  were  then  both 
interested.  He  had  just  won  one  of  the  big  paced  races  of  the  Anerly 
Bicycle  Club,  of  which  we  were  at  that  time  members. 

In  1902,  when  I  had  finally  abandoned  track  racing,  Tadpole,  as 
we  all  loved  to  call  him,  introduced  me  to  the  Bath  Road  Club  ;  and 
since  that  date  we  must  have  covered  some  50,000  miles  in  company 
by  cycle  and  later  by  car. 

That  is  the  way  to  find  out  what  is  in  a  man,  and  he  soon  proved 
that  he  was  good  right  through.  For  instance,  at  first  I  wondered 
how  it  was  that  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  come  out  for  a  training 
spin  on  certain  days  in  the  week,  and  it  was  not  for  a  long  time  that 
I  discovered  he  gave  up  those  days  to  voluntary  work  among  the 
poor.  It  was  in  the  same  unostentatious  way  that  he  joined  the  Army 
when  he  saw  his  duty  before  him,  gaining  a  first  lieutenant's  commis- 
sion in  the  loth  Gordon  Highlanders  in  October  1914,  the  first  I  heard 
of  it  being  when  he  came  to  see  me  on  the  eve  of  taking  up  his 
new  duties.  For  the  first  few  months  he  had  a  very  bad  time  of  it, 
the  terrible  weather,  combined  with  the  difficulty  of  picking  up  the 
routine  work,  making  his  life  a  doubtful  pleasure  ;  but  soon  his  grit 
and  cheery  manner  triumphed  over  all  obstacles,  and  he  not  only 
grew  to  love  his  new  life,  but  also  soon  gained  the  confidence  and  love 
of  his  fellow  officers  and  men. 

When  I  saw  him  last,  a  day  or  two  before  he  went  to  the  front 
in  June,  he  told  me  he  feared  he  would  never  come  back,  which 
has,  alas  !  proved  only  too  true  a  presentiment,  for  he  met  his  death 
from  a  rifle  grenade,  which  I  take  to  be  a  weapon  of  but  little  accuracy 
— so  that  it  was  a  doubly  sad  end  for  so  good  a  man. 

Although  all  with  whom  he  came  into  contact  loved  him  for  his 
unfailing  cheeriness  and  good  humour,  I  think  few  people  realized 
what  he  had  in  him. 

Unable,  for  medical  reasons,  to  go  to  a  public  school,  at  the  age  of 
nineteen  he  travelled  practically  all  over  the  world  entirely  by  him- 
self, gaining  experience  and  self-reliance  (in  addition  to  a  vast  fund 
of  anecdote)  which  proved  invaluable  to  him  in  later  life.  With  us 
he  was  always  the  life  and  soul  of  club  runs,  and  no  Bath  Road  dinner 
was  complete  without  him. 

As  to  his  purely  cycling  performances,  during  his  comparatively 
short  term  of  racing,  he  won  the  first  50  miles  handicap  of  1902,  took 
a  prominent  part  in  the  B.R.C.  team  at  the  inter-club  "  50  "  with 
the  N.R.C.C.  in  that  year  (in  which  he  put  up  his  best  "  50  ")  and 
in  1903  gained  his  gold  button  for  the  Edinburgh- York  tandem 
record.  In  1902  he  will  be  remembered  by  Anfielders,  with  whom 
he  was  very  popular,  as  a  whole-hearted  helper  in  their  "  24." 


TOMMY    WALPOLE  247 

Our  experiences  together,  had  I  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer,  would 
fill  a  book,  but  let  it  suffice  to  put  on  record  that  in  all  our  efforts 
together  he  did  far  more  than  his  fair  share  of  the  toil,  for  it  is  no 
joke  pushing  a  man  of  my  bulk  about.  His  beautiful  style,  compara- 
tively light  weight,  and  unfailing  pluck  and  cheeriness  made  him  a 
perfect  tandem  partner. 

Well,  the  Bath  Road  Club  and  we  his  friends  have  suffered  a  very 
heavy  loss,  and  we  shall  never  forget  him.  It  is  no  small  consola- 
tion, though,  to  think  that  he  saw  his  duty  plain  before  him,  like 
a  true  Bath  Roader,  and  died  gloriously  in  pursuit  of  it. 

Mr  John   Lane  bears  witness  to  his  intellectual 
interest  in  the  following  appreciation : — 

He  was  born  at  Teddington  on  September  2,  1879,  an<^  I  we^  re~ 
member  his  proud  father  taking  me  into  the  nursery  the  following 
Christmas  to  view  his  firstborn.  Since  then,  but  more  especially  in 
recent  years,  we  met  constantly,  so  that  I  may  claim  to  have  known 
him  intimately  all  his  life. 

In  some  respects  he  was  the  most  remarkable  young  man  I  have 
ever  known,  and. his  social  charm  ensured  his  being  one  of  the  most 
popular  men  about  town  of  his  time.  For  well-nigh  twenty  years 
no  ball  was  complete  without  his  presence,  and  he  was  a  most 
accomplished  dancer  ;  yet  very  few  of  his  hundreds  of  hostesses  knew 
his  more  serious  side.  He  was  a  brilliant  and  most  daring  conversa- 
tionalist, and  like  his  father  he  belonged  to  the  eighteenth  century, 
in  this  respect  at  any  rate.  He  was  a  perambulating  Almanack  de 
Gotha  in  his  knowledge  as  to  the  ramifications  of  the  great  English 
and  Continental  families.  His  genealogical  information  and  his 
familiarity  with  foreign  heraldry  were  beyond  that  of  any  other  man 
of  my  acquaintance.  Indeed  ever  since  the  publication  of  Coke  of 
Norfolk  in  1907,  he  was  in  the  habit,  as  a  labour  of  love,  of  reading 
all  the  proofs  of  any  books  of  memoirs,  or  books  connected  in  any 
way  with  genealogy  or  heraldry  issued  at  the  Bodley  Head,  and  many 
are  the  pitfalls  and  dilemmas  from  which  he  has  rescued  the  authors 
and  publishers.  Indeed  his  extensive  knowledge  was  always  placed 
at  the  disposal  of  any  searcher  after  truth  in  these  matters  and  he 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  Notes  and  Queries.  I  have  known 
him  to  look  upon  portraits  of  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth  or  eighteenth 
century — bearing  arms  but  otherwise  anonymous — and  within  a 
short  time  he  would  identify  and  reconstruct  the  personality  of 
the  sitter.  Some  time  before  his  tragic  death  John  Davidson, 
the  poet,  presented  me  with  an  inscribed  copy  of  that  fascinating 
work,  Rush's  Residence  at  the  Court  of  London  from  1817  to  1825, 
with  the  recommendation  that  I  should  re-issue  it.  Davidson  had 
written  an  enthusiastic  article  on  the  book  and  I  handed  both  the 


248     THE    MAN    ABOUT   TOWN 

book  and  the  article  to  Walpole.  On  his  returning  the  volume  to 
me  a  year  or  so  later  I  found  that  of  probably  over  a  thousand  names 
mentioned  in  the  work,  all  but  five  or  six  were  voluminously  annotated 
in  his  wonderful  handwriting.  Some  day  I  hope  to  give  to  the  world 
this  fruit  of  his  rich  and  varied  knowledge. 

All  who  knew  "  Tommy  Walpole  " — as  he  was  familiarly  called  by 
so  many — must  feel  his  loss  to  be  irreparable,  for  I  never  knew  a  man 
with  a  kinder  heart,  and  all  his  friends  must  have  experienced  evidence 
of  this.  Nor  was  his  kindness  confined  to  his  own  immediate  circle, 
as  for  many  years  he  gave  his  services  daily  at  the  offices  of  the  Charity 
Organisation  Society,  and  was  always  ready  to  help  the  poor  and 
distressed. 

Mrs  Adrian  Porter,  in  the  life  of  her  father,  Sir  John  Henniker 
Heaton,  records  a  characteristic  anecdote  of  "  Tommy's "  won- 
derful memory.  "  One  day  when  he  was  at  a  luncheon  party 
with  us  I  said,  '  Is  it  true  that  you  know  the  exact  age  and 
birthday  of  everyone  you  meet  at  dances  ? '  He  replied,  '  I 
suppose  it  is  more  or  less  true — for  instance  I  know  you  were  born 
in  November  1884.'  I  said,  '  Oh,  but  perhaps  you  looked  me  up 
before  you  came  ! '  Everyone  joined  in  the  laughter,  and  at  their 
request  he  astonished  and  amused  them  by  giving  correctly  the  ages 
and  birth  month  of  four  out  of  the  five  girls  who  were  present.  (The 
fifth  was  a  South  American  who  had  not  long  been  in  London.)" 

Innumerable  tributes  to  his  memory  lay  stress  on 
his  humour  and  high  spirits,  thoroughness  in  all  his 
work,  and  the  natural  kindness  which  was  rooted 
in  the  love  of  human  nature  for  its  own  sake.  He 
was  the  most  charitable  of  men,  and  with  him 
courtesy  was  the  better  part  of  charity.  He  was 
buried  in  the  little  soldiers'  cemetery  known  as 
"  Quality  Street,"  with  a  man  of  his  own  company 
on  the  right  and  two  others  of  his  regiment  on  the 
left.  He  was  a  first-rate  regimental  officer,  who  set 
the  comfort  of  his  men  before  his  own  at  all  times 
and  knew  how  to  win  and  keep  their  confidence 
in  the  critical  days  of  the  struggle  against  over- 
whelming odds  which  saved  civilization.  Had  he 
lived,  he  would  have  been  a  brilliantly  successful 
soldier — all  his  superior  officers  were  agreed  on  that 
point. 


WILLIAM    NOEL    HODGSON 
(LIEUTENANT,    QT1L    DEVON    REGIMENT,    M.C.) 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER 

WILLIAM  NOEL  HODGSON 

WILLIAM  NOEL  HODGSON,  third  and 
youngest  son  of  the  Bishop  of  St 
Edmundsbury  and  Ipswich,  was  born 
January  3rd,  1893.  He  entered  Durham  School 
(School  House)  in  September  1905,  having  been 
elected  to  a  King's  Scholarship  in  the  June  of  that 
year.  He  steered  the  2nd  Crew  in  1907  and  was 
in  the  XV.  in  1910  and  in  the  XL  in  1910-1911. 
He  won  the  Steeplechase  in  1911.  OQ  leaving 
school  he  went  to  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  where 
he  had  gained  a  Classical  Exhibition.  He  played 
Rugby  football  and  hockey  for  "  The  House."  In 
March  1913  he  obtained  a  First  in  Classical 
Moderations.  At  the  outbreak  of  war  he  received 
a  commission ;  he  was  mentioned  in  dispatches 
and  awarded  the  Military  Cross  in  October  1915, 
and  was  subsequently  promoted  to  be  lieutenant. 
He  fell  in  the  Somme  offensive  on  July  ist,  1916. 

Hundreds  of  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Under- 
graduates, who  joined  up  the  moment  we  declared 
war  on  Germany,  must  have  had  much  the  same 
record  in  yv/^ao-ri/o?  and  JJLOVO-IKT}  as  this  young 
scholar  and  athlete  who  would  be  remembered 
in  English  literature  if  he  had  written  nothing 
save  the  famous  hymn  Before  Action.  Both  at 
school  and  at  Oxford,  however,  he  had  been 
recognized  by  his  contemporaries  as  an  unusually 
strong  and  deep  character,  with  large  reserves  of 
spiritual  power.  Both  in  his  work  and  in  games 
"he  had  a  singular  gift  of  rising  to  the  occasion — 
an  incidental  greatness  seemed  to  characterize  him 

249 


25o    THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER 

whenever  a  difficult  question  was  proposed  or  his 
side  found  itself  in  a  tight  corner.  "  From  the 
first  it  was  evident,"  wrote  his  Headmaster  in  a 
survey  of  his  school  career,  "that  he  possessed 
ability,  but  its  extent  was,  I  fancy,  not  suspected 
until  near  the  end  of  his  time  at  school.  The 
impression  one  now  has,  looking  back,  is  that  he 
very  seldom  gave  his  powers  full  play.  He  kept 
them  in  reserve  until  the  real  occasion  presented 
itself.  He  preferred  to  criticize  in  silence  and  to 
work  out  the  solution  of  an  intellectual  problem,  or 
discover  the  happy  phrase,  and  keep  them  to 
himself.".  As  olives  grow  by  moonlight,  so  the 
soul  waxes  strong  in  contemplation — and  that  is 
why  the  English  habit  of  reserve,  which  the 
foreigner  dislikes  in  us  and  fears  not  a  little,  is  a 
secret  source  of  national  strength.  But  the  intensity 
of  his  inner  life — those  solitary  voyages  in  the  vast 
ocean  of  the  divine  of  which  his  poems  are  the  only 
records — did  not  prevent  him  from  tasting  every 
flavour  of  the  joyousness  of  school  life  and  college 
life  in  communities  established  on  the  chivalrous 
equality  vi  par  age,  whereby  all  are  peers  who  give 
their  best  in  service  and  self-sacrifice.  He  made 
many  a  friendship  at  school,  which  the  passing  of 
time  or  even  lack  of  intercourse  served  only  to 
confirm,  and  he  did  not  expect  his  friends  to  see 
eye  to  eye  with  him  in  all  things,  a  gentle  tolerance 
being  one  of  his  characteristics,  the  bloom  as  it 
were  on  a  rose-white  temperament.  In  the  happy 
days  of  youth  he  was  a  truth-seeker,  but  when  he 
met  Beauty  by  the  way  he  did '  not — like  some  of 
the  Georgian  poets — think  it  a  waste  of  time  and 
himself  to  worship  her  a  while.  The  blithe  charm  of 
the  English  boyhood  which  he  himself  never  lost : — 


WILLIAM    HODGSON          251 

Oh,  arrow-straight  and  slender 

With  grey  eyes  unafraid; 
You  see  the  roses'  splendour 

Nor  reck  that  they  shall  fade. 

Youth  in  its  flush  and  flower 

Has  a  soul  of  whitest  flame, 
Eternity  in  an  hour, 

All  life  and  death  in  a  game — 

and  its  adventurous  spirit  satiated  in  fancy,  if  never 
in  action : — 

Great  days  we've  known,  when  fancy's  barque  unfurled 

Her  faery  wings,  and  bore  us  through  the  world 

To  spy  upon  the  devious  ways  of  men. 

We  trafficked  in  Baghdad  and  Samarcand, 

Or  handled  ankers  in  the  smugglers'  den, 

Or  came  at  evening  to  an  unknown  strand 

Where  each  man  gripped  his  cutlass  in  his  hand. 

For  magic  ruled  the  whole  earth  over  then. 

Earth  was  a  treasure  house  of  wond'rous  things 

That  tall-built  galleons,  with  snowy  wings, 

Brought  from  strange  seas,  where  coral-ringed  lagoons 

See  great  gold  suns  and  amber-girdled  moons. 

And  some  men  spoiled  the  hoards  of  old  sea-kings, 

Red  gold  in  ingots,  jewels  rich  and  rare, 

Wrought  silver  plate  and  cups  with  carven  lips, 

Doubloons  and  spices,  costly  silks,  and  fair 

Tall  girls  with  rubies  in  their  raven  hair — 

are  the  theme  of  his  poems  more  often  than  you 
would  expect.  He  always  kept  in  mind  the  debt 
he  owed  to  his  school  and  to  the  great  Abbey, 
"  exceeding  wise  and  strong  and  full  of  years," 
which  is  one  of  the  bulwarks  of  Christian 
civilization,  and  to  the  "  master-smiths "  whose 
work  it  is  to  build  ships  for  the  seas  of  eternity: — 

See  the  silent  smithy  where, 

On  the  noiseless  anvils  laid, 
Day  by  day  and  year  by  year 

Souls  of  men  are  forged  and  made. 


252    THE   CHRISTIAN   SOLDIER 

Ceaselessly  the  hammers  fall, 

Making  ties  and  rivets  fast, 
Till  the  perfect  ship  is  found 

Ready  for  the  seas  at  last. 

Trial  and  temptation  strong 

Beat  upon  the  hardening  steel, 
Love  and  trust  and  self-control 

Rivet  it  from  truck  to  keel. 

Of  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  Oxford  countryside  he 
does  not  sing  at  all ;  to  the  end  he  was  haunted  by 
the  mystical  presences  of  the  Northern  moors  which 
he  celebrates  in  God*s  Hills,  a  poem  which  is  a 
worthy  parallel  to  Julian  Grenfell's  magnificent 
picture  of  Indian  mountains  : — 

In  our  hill  country  of  the  North, 

The  rainy  skies  are  soft  and  grey, 
And  rank  on  rank  the  clouds  go  forth, 

And  rain  in  orderly  array 
Treads  the  mysterious  flanks  of  hills 

That  stood  before  our  race  began, 
And  still  shall  stand  when  Sorrow  spills 

Her  last  tear  on  the  dust  of  man. 


There  shall  the  mists  in  beauty  break, 

And  clinging  tendrils  finely  drawn 
A  rose  and  silver  glory  make 

About  the  silent  feet  of  dawn  ; 
Till  Gable  clears  his  iron  sides 

And  BowfelPs  wrinkled  front  appears, 
And  ScawfelPs  clustered  might  derides 

The  menace  of  -the  marching  years. 

The  tall  men  of  that  noble  land 

Who  share  such  high  companionship, 
Are  scorners  of  the  feeble  hand, 

Contemners  of  the  faltering  lip. 
When  all  the  ancient  truths  depart 

In  every  strait  that  men  confess, 
Stands  in  the  stubborn  Cumbrian  heart 

The  spirit  of  that  steadfastness. 


WILLIAM    HODGSON          253 

In  quiet  valleys  of  the  hills 

The  humble  grey  stone  crosses  lie, 
And  all  day  long  the  curlew  shrills 

And  all  day  long  the  wind  goes  by. 
But  on  some  stifling  alien  plain 

The  flesh  of  Cumbrian  men  is  thrust 
In  shallow  pits,  and  cries  in  vain 

To  mingle  with  its  kindred  dust. 

Yet  those  make  death  a  little  thing 

Who  know  the  settled  works  of  God, 
Winds  that  heard  Latin  watchwords  ring 

From  ramparts  where  the  Roman  trod, 
Stars  that  beheld  the  last  King's  crown 

Flash  in  the  steel  grey  mountain  tarn, 
And  ghylls  that  cut  the  live  rock  down 

Before  kings  ruled  in  Ispahan. 

And  when  the  sun  at  even  dips 

And  Sabbath  bells  are  sad  and  sweet, 
When  some  wan  Cumbrian  mother's  lips 

Pray  for  the  son  they  shall  not  greet ; 
As  falls  that  sudden  dew  of  grace 

Which  makes  for  her  the  riddle  plain, 
The  South  wind  blows  to  our  own  place, 

And  we  shall  see  the  hills  again. 

Indeed  there  was  nothing  dour  or  sour  in  his  poetic 
soul,  for  he  could  make,  a  love-song  or  an  exiguous 
epitaph  for  the  death  of  his  youth  or  even  indite 
stanzas  to  the  honour  and  glory  of  rum  punch : — 

Ruby -red  Jamaica  rum 
Seasoned  with  a  pirate's  thumb, 
Brought  from  an  enchanted  ocean 
Is  the  backbone  of  our  potion, 
Our  immortal  magic  lotion 
Loosing  speech  in  men  long  dumb. 

Brandy,  likest  bottled  sun, 

Where  the  broad  French  rivers  run  ; 

Liquor  that  hath  not  a  fellow 

Save  those  ancient  wines  and  mellow, 

Emerald  green  and  jasper  yellow, 

Grown  by  monks  of  habit  dun. 


254    THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER 

A  stave  of  Latin  rhyme  out  of  some  mediaeval 
drinking-hymnal : — 

Pocula  parantur  mensis, 
Vinum  potius  quam  ensis — 

comes  in  at  the  last  to  remind  one  of  the  immemorial 
connection  between  sound  doctrine  and  sound  liquor 
which,  in  this  land,  ceased  to  be  well  remembered 
after  the  lamented  death  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Two  Oxford  appreciations,  one  by  a  Don  and  the 
other  by  an  undergraduate  friend,  are  vivid  apprecia- 
tions of  a  character  that  impressed  itself  on  his 
companions  more  even  by  being  than  by  doing. 
Here  is  the  semi-official  appreciation — or,  as  Dons 
and  undergraduates  are  closer  than  they  were  a 
generation  ago,  perhaps  one  should  say  derriHsemt- 
official : — 

I  like  to  think  of  Hodgson  at  Christ  Church.  He  stood  distinctly 
by  himself  and  from  the  first  struck  one  as  a  man  most  stable  and 
secure,  very  sure  of  himself,  yet  without  the  least  touch  of  self-trust 
or  self-confidence.  When  he  came  up,  I  was  asked  by  Dr  Ottley 
to  make  friends  with  him,  for  his  father's  sake,  and  also  because  of 
the  hope  his  father  had  that  he  might  be  a  clergyman.  It  was  not 
hard  to  get  on  terms  with  him,  but  one  felt  at  once  that  his  character 
was  one  of  those  vastly  firm  characters  that  are  well  able  to  look  after 
themselves.  Most  men  come  up  to  Oxford  mentally  and  morally 
less  formed  than  Hodgson.  He  had  got  a  good  line  always  and  kept 
to  it.  When  I  speak  of  him  as  formed  I  do  not  mean  that  he  had 
reached  a  kind  of  mechanical  excellence.  Nothing  would  be  farther 
from  the  truth.  He  was  growing  steadily,  justly  and  freshly,  but  the 
roots  were  deeper  than  you  will  ordinarily  find  them.  He  had  not 
to  find  his  balance  or  even  bother  about  trying  to  keep  it.  His  balance 
was  natural  and  he  was  true  to  it.  I  was  not  his  tutor,  so  cannot 
speak  from  any  official  knowledge  of  his  intellectual  capacity.  But 
I  have  often  heard  him  praised  as  a  classical  scholar,  for  his  nice 
feeling  for  language,  his  restraint,  and  his  striking  command  over  his 
materials.  Still  more  insistently  have  I  heard  his  "  Greats  "  work 
appreciated  and  admired.  He  had  an  extraordinarily  cool  mind,  his 
tutor  told  me.  He  would  not  say  very  much  in  a  private  hour,  but  he 
would  take  in  whatever  was  heard  and  ponder  it,  literally  weigh  it  in 


WILLIAM    HODGSON          255 

his  mind  ;  then,  after  turning  it  over,  he  would  make  it  his  own  and 
produce  not  the  same  matter,  but  the  matter  worked  over  and  appreci- 
ated and  even  illuminated  by  a  thoroughly  fresh  and  independent 
mind.  There  was  a  clearness,  a  sense  of  logic  and  consistency  and 
grasp,  and  a  marshalling  of  his  facts,  which  promised  great  things, 
not  necessarily  in  the  world  of  learning,  though  there  is  little  doubt 
he  would  have  been  among  the  best  when  the  test  of  the  Schools  came, 
but  in  the  world  of  men  and  in  practical  affairs.  There  was  exactly 
the  same  feeling  of  grasp  and  clear-headed  consistency  to  be  observed 
in  his  ordinary  out-of-school  life.  He  had  a  strong  sense  of  r6sponsi- 
bility.  There  was  nothing  patronising  or  priggish  about  it.  It  is 
absurd  even  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  this  in  thinking  of 
Hodgson.  But  he  was  born,  or  had  become,  morally  strong,  and  he 
used  his  strength  for  the  welfare  of  others.  I  remember  being  par- 
ticularly struck  by  his  friendships.  There  were  not  a  few  men  of 
his  own  year  whose  tastes  and  abilities  were  of  a  kind  to  match  his 
own,  and  easily  and  naturally  enough  he  made  friends  with  them. 
With  them  he  talked  and  walked  and  read  and  did  a  thousand  happy 
things.  And  yet  the  man  to  whom  his  virtue  most  went  out  was  a 
man,  from  the  ordinary  point  of  view,  totally  unlike  him,  morally 
inclined  to  be  a  weakling,  rather  dull  and  with  no  particular  taste 
for  literature  or  knowledge  of  classics  or  interest  in  philosophy. 
Like  Hodgson,  he  could  play  a  good  game  of  Rugby,  but  that  was 
the  only  obvious  link.  Yet  not  deliberately,  or  of  set  purpose,  but 
instinctively,  Hodgson  adopted  him,  gave  him  most  of  his  company 
and,  though  I  do  not  think  they  ever  had  much  in  common,  became 
his  prop.  I  do  not  know  what  sort  of  an  officer  Hodgson  was  when 
he  joined  the  army,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  cared,  and  cared 
exceedingly,  for  his  men. 

It  may  be  fancied  from  all  this  that  Hodgson's  interests  were  of 
a  highly  practical  kind.  Where  did  the  poetry  come  in  ?  A  great 
many  men  have  their  secrets  at  Oxford,  and  this  was  Hodgson's. 
His  passion  for  good  found  its  deepest  expression  in  poetry.  I 
remember  feeling  a  little  surprised  when  I  first  heard  that  Hodgson 
wrote  poetry.  But  when  you  come  to  read  his  poetry  you  see  how 
exact  and  just  is  its  revelation  of  his  character.  He  had,  like  his 
poetry,  a  strong  grasp  of  fact  but  there  was  vision  too.  How  the 
Lakes  delighted  him  ;  he  felt  for  them  as  a  lover  or  a  child.  I  have 
heard  him  speak  about  them  as  a  lover,  not  ecstatically,  but  with  the 
controlled  passion  of  one  with  whom  they  were  things  too  deep  for 
speech,  and  there  was  a  clear  cool  look  in  his  face  and  a  clear  steadfast 
expression  not  unbecoming  those  whose  travels  and  whose  minds 
have  been  much  with  the  mountains  and  the  waters  below  them. 
Resolute  and  strong  ;  active  in  heart  and  brain,  owning  his  mind  and 
body  alike  well ;  far  seeing  and  with  a  vision  of  the  worlds  beyond, 


256    THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER 

a  good  sportsman,  a  lover  of  his  kind,  a  lover  of  nature,  well-set  up, 
well  disciplined,  self-controlled,  and  therefore  able  to  control; 
thoroughly  true  and  steadfast ;  a  good  friend,  thoughtful  not  for 
himself  but  for  others  ;  quiet  and  in  some  ways  reserved  ;  Christian 
in  spirit  and  in  observance  as  well ;  his  friends  can  never  forget  him 
nor  their  lives  fail  to  be  a  little  nobler  because  he  was  just  what  he 
was,  and  did  what  he  did.  G.  K.  A.  B. 

The  friend  who  shared  with  him  the  joyous  and 
abundant  life  of  "  The  House "  (always  in  its 
reasoned  self-esteem  a  place  apart)  gets  closer  still  to 
the  man-in-himself : — 

What  I  know  of  Bill  Hodgson  at  Christ  Church  was  almost  entirely 
confined  to  our  personal  friendship.  We  never  belonged  to  the  same 
clubs  and  rarely  met,  except  in  the  evenings,  when  we  met  in  his 
rooms  or  mine  after  Hall,  and  sat  hour  after  hour  reading  Classical 
texts  and  discussing  the  latest  books  and  each  other's  writings.  Few 
subjects  remained  undiscussed,  from  football  to  social  reform,  and 
then  frequently  we  would  clear  the  chairs  on  one  side  and  have  a 
spar  without  gloves,  my  weight  compensating  for  his  skill.  Of  his 
thought  and  his  wonderful  scholarship  I  knew  more  than  anyone  at 
the  House.  When  I  say  wonderful  I  was  thinking  of  Homer.  I 
really  think  this  should  be  recorded  of  him,  his  love  of  Homer  and 
understanding  of  the  Iliad  especially.  Himself  simple,  fearless,  and 
wonderfully  alive,  he  enjoyed  every  instant  he  lived,  and  his  games 
were  one  with  his  scholarship.  He  played  football  as  one  who  en- 
joyed the  sensation  as  well  as  the  game,  and  his  work  was  all  done 
in  the  same  spirit.  He  was  at  his  best,  I  thought,  on  the  early  summer 
mornings,  when  he  and  several  more  of  us  would  go  to  Long  Bridges 
and  bathe,  scaling  the  iron  palings  at  the  bottom  of  Christ  Church 
meadows  en  route  in  order  to  seize  and  make  away  with  the  House 
punt  from  the  barge,  or  even  some  other  college  punt.  A  good  trespass 
or  a  roguish  theft  appealed  to  him  vastly.  On  those  mornings  whoever 
of  the  party  chose  to  stay  in  bed,  that  was  not  Bill ;  in  fact  he  had 
a  true  scorn  for  such  sloth.  He  was  constitutionally  impatient  of 
anything  like  laziness  in  action  or  morbidity  of  thought ;  and  he 
shamed  one  out  of  that :  nobody  needed  his  sympathy  and  help,  and 
failed  to  get  them.  His  strength  was  the  support  of  many  less  happily 
endowed  than  himself,  and  his  sacrifice  of  time  and  patience,  despite 
the  natural  hastiness  with  any  weakness  of  disposition,  was  generous. 
Even  in  dress  he  was  neat  to  fastidiousness,  and  this  suited  him 
when  it  might  have  seemed  out  of  place  in  others.  His  whole  life 
was  a  protest  against  slipshodness  of  any  kind.  His  notes  at  lecture 
were  copperplate  or  nothing ;  often  nothing,  but  never  careless. 


WILLIAM    HODGSON         257 

He  was  not  over-modest  or  self-esteeming,  his  vivid  common  sense 
made  either  impossible.  He  estimated  his  own  capacities,  if  ever 
he  took  the  trouble,  in  the  same  neat  and  sensible  fashion  in  which 
he  might  the  merits  of  some  new  book.  He  had  very  many  friends, 
and  I  am  sure  he  never  lost  one.  And  every  one  of  them  can  see  him 
clearly  as  I  can  while  I  write.  He  kept  clear  of  extravagance,  and 
his  circle  of  acquaintance  had  nothing  to  do  with  politics.  I  can  see 
him  still  with  that  fine  gleam  in  his  eye  cataloguing  the  various  public 
men  "  honest  fellow  "  or  "  knave  "  or  attaching  to  their  name  some 
literary  tag.  He  had  a  keen  eye  for  the  actual :  philosophy  wearied 
him,  but  science  and  social  ethics  interested  him  deeply.  I  am  sure 
he  was  greatly  impressed  by  Charles  Fisher,  whose  character  was  so 
like  his  own  ;  everybody  knew  him  as  deeply,  though  not  fancifully, 
religious,  and  he  was  never  backward  in  encouraging  others  in  this 
respect.  His  is  a  picture  strongly  individual,  vivid,  and  clear-cut ; 
every  action  and  word  full  of  reason  and  restraint — but  his  eyes  alight 
with  the  enduring  boyhood  he  was  never  to  outlive. 

His  record  as  an  officer  of  the  Qth  Devons  gives 
the  same  impression  of  a  great  reserve  of  power 
under  an  exterior  of  cheerful  alacrity — he  was  called 
"  Smiler "  by  his  brother  officers.  He  very  soon 
acquired  a  complete  knowledge  of  his  duties  and  of 
the  psychology  of  the  enemy.  His  coolness  and 
gallantry  were  conspicuous  during  the  attack  at 
Loos  and  in  the  defence  of  Gun  Trench  against  a 
series  of  counter  assaults.  He  was  intensely  proud 
of  the  magnificent  bravery  of  his  men,  and  they  for 
their  part  loved  and  admired  him  and  trusted  him 
implicitly,  knowing  that  he  had  a  clear  insight  into 
the  tactical  position.  "  I  have  been  with  him  a 
good  deal  in  action,"  wrote  one  of  his  brother 
officers,  "  and  he  was  about  the  only  man  whom  I 
have  never  known  to  show  a  sign  of  fear,  though  I 
know  he  felt  it  like  the  rest  of  us."  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Somme  offensive,  when  it  was  his  duty 
to  supply  his  battalion  with  bombs,  establishing 
depots  in  the  German  lines  as  they  were  taken,  he 
carried  out  his  duties  without  a  hitch.  He  got  as 


258    THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER 

far  as  the  third  German  lines  and  was  then  mortally 
wounded,  a  bullet  passing  through  his  throat.  His 
last  words,  addressed  to  his  sergeant,  were :  "  Carry 
on ;  you  know  what  to  do."  "  Your  son  received 
the  Holy  Communion  just  before  going  up  to 
battle,"  wrote  the  Chaplain  of  the  9th  Devons  to 
his  father,  "  and  though  he  seldom  spoke  about  such 
things,  the  deep  faith  that  inspired  him  was  plain 
to  all." 

His  impressions  of  warfare  are  set  down  in  a 
few  sketches  (published  in  the  Spectator  and  in 
the  Saturday  Review  and  other  literary  journals) 
which  are  stirring  and  full  of  reality  rather  than 
"  realistic,"  and  as  readable  as  any  of  the  best- 
known  work  of  Boyd  Cable  and  the  other 
chroniclers  of  battles  from  the  individual  soldier's 
point  of  view.  The  two  sketches  entitled 
"  Nestoria "  are  admirably  based  on  his  own 
experiences.  The  first  begins  with  a  conversa- 
tional epic  (would  we  had  it  in  full !)  of  the 
remaking  of  a  shockingly  shattered  regiment  :— 

During  dinner  the  man  on  leave  had  delivered  an  epic.  It  had 
traced  the  adventures  of  the  faithful  few  who  remained  over  when 
the  regiment  marched  back  in  the  grey  hours  of  Friday's  dawn  from 
the  chalk  lines  before  Vermelles,  to  be  flung  back  to  trenches  thirty- 
six  hours  later.  It  followed  them  through  the  Givenchy  craters  and 
Festubert  marshes,  on  marches  southward  and  northward,  among 
shellings  and  bombings,  short  rests  and  heavy  labours.  It  told  of  the 
slow  welding  of  the  new  regiment,  when  the  fresh  drafts  came  rolling 
in  from  the  Base,  of  worries  and  perplexities  surmounted,  of 
"  quilters  "  rooted  out,  of  good  men  discovered,  and,  finally,  of  how 
the  battalion,  once  more  conscious  of  itself  as  a  unity  with  history 
and  honourable  scars,  was  being  tempered  to  a  fine  edge  for  the  next 
stroke. 

Hodgson  was  one  of  the  men  on  whom  a  C.O. 
relies  for  invaluable  help — help  which  cannot  be 


WILLIAM    HODGSON          259 

weighed  in  Staff  balances  and  gets  no  tangible 
reward — in  the  achievement  of  that  ever-recurring 
miracle,  the  Phoenix-like  renewal  of  the  life  of  a 
famous  regiment  when  almost  all  the  old  members 
of  the  historic  brotherhood  have  vanished  in  the 
wasting  fire  of  a  great  action.  These  sketches  are 
clearly  autobiographical ;  the  second  shows  you  how 
"  Smiler  "  earned  his  Cross.  In  "  The  Raid  "  there 
is  an  invaluable  note  on  German  psychology  in 
warfare  :— 

The  essential  difference  between  ourselves  and  our  enemies  is  in 
nothing  more  strikingly  displayed  than  in  the  raid  which  we  in- 
augurated last  autumn.  It  began  with  a  Canadian  "  cutting-out  " 
expedition,  recalling,  by  the  audacity  of  its  conception  and  the  cool 
daring  of  its  execution,  the  recapture  of  the  Hermione  or  some  other 
heroic  stroke  of  Nelson's  navy.  Others  followed  of  the  same  kind, 
relying  on  surprise,  nerve  and  man-to-man  superiority  for  success. 
Then  the  German  took  up  the  idea  and  applied  to  it  his  hacking- 
through  principle.  To  pulverize  a  small  portion  of  trench  by  a  tre- 
mendous artillery  concentration  and  then  send  a  party  to  pick  up  any 
fragments,  was  his  scientific  adaptation  of  adventurous  enterprise 
little  suited  to  his  character. 

Now  and  again  we  have  a  still,  entrancing  picture 
of  a  brooding  landscape,  full  of  consulting  trees, 
in  the  same  countryside  : — 

Below  him  in  the  valley  among  the  poplars,  whose  sober  tracery 
v/as  already  faintly  tinged  with  green,  lay  the  red  and  white  of  cottages 
dominated  by  twin  towers,  their  stone  mellowed  with  the  passage  of 
five  hundred  years.  Faintly  through  the  branches  glimmered  the 
blue  of  water,  and  beyond  again  a  thick  fir  spinney  crowning  a  quarry 
stood  black  against  the  russet  poplars.  Behind  and  over  it  all  swelled 
the  opposing  ridge,  where  the  smooth  swathe  of  grass  and  stubble 
was  broken  by  the  vivid  green  of  young  wheat  and  the  rich  umber 
of  damp  ploughland.  Away  to  the  eastward,  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills, 
the  square  pile  of  a  great  abbey  rose  mistily  from  the  smoke  of  the 
city,  and  farther  still  the  downs  ran,  ridge  upon  ridge,  into  the  midst 
of  illimitable  distance — a  Kingdom  of  dream. 

A  Kingdom  of  dream  indeed  ! — renewing  in  this 
young  soldier's  mind  the  vision  of  those  Abbeys, 


260    THE   CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER 

citadels  of  Christianity  in  his  own  northern  land, 
which  have  seen  the  barbarians  come  and  go  in 
remote  centuries : — 

The  Abbey's  three  tall  towers 

Behold  the  tides  of  men 
Flow  from  their  silent  waters 

To  seas  beyond  their  ken  ; 
They  gazed  on  us,  my  brothers, 

And  we  were  happy  then. 

Our  footsteps,  oh  my  brothers, 

In  pleasant  paths  were  set, 
With  pleasures  to  remember, 

And  sorrows  to  forget, 
Deep  draught  of  love  and  laughter, 

A  cup  without  regret. 

In  "  Pearson  "  he  praises  his  soldier  servant — 
"  If  he  were  Commander-in-Chief,  the  war  would 
be  over  in  a  week.  But  I  should  get  no  baths, 
so  I'm  glad  he  isn't."  The  affair  of  the  Mess 
carpet  (Headquarters  Mess  had  been  installed  in 
the  main  room  of  an  empty  house,  which  had  a 
very  cold  stone  floor)  illustrates  Pearson's  methods 
admirably : — 

I  hardly  saw  how  he  was  to  obtain  a  carpet  at  twenty-four  hours' 
notice.  However,  I  called  him  ;  "  Pearson,"  I  said,  "  we  want  a 
carpet  for  the  Mess  by  tea-time  to-morrow." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

"  There's  a  bet  on  it,  Pearson." 

"  I'll  see  to  it,  sir,"  and  off  he  went. 

Next  morning,  as  I  was  returning  from  thejOrderly  Room,  Pearson 
met  me. 

"  Please,  sir,  will  you  give  me  a  pass  to  EXYZED  ?  " 

Now  EXYZED  is  the  remains  of  a  town  that  became  uninhabited 
very  suddenly,  and  is  still  attended  to  daily  by  the  Gernmn  gunners. 
It  is  out  of  bounds  for  troops. 

"  Sorry,  Pearson,  I  can't." 

Pearson  looked  disappointed.     "  The  carpet,  sir— — "  he  ventured. 

"  Have  to  give  it  a  miss,"  said  I. 


WILLIAM    HODGSON          261 

Pearson  shook  his  head  and  moved  sorrowfully  away. 

Shortly  before  tea,  the  door  of  the  Mess  Room  was  violently  agitated, 
and  Pearson  entered  in  a  stream  of  perspiration,  bearing  on  his 
shoulders  a  carpet  and  two  rolls  of  linoleum. 

"  Good  Lord,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  where  did  those  come  from  ?  " 

"  EXYZED,  sir  "  ;  then,  turning  to  me,  "  you  didn't  tell  me  not 
to  go,  sir." 

"  Pearson,"  I  said,  "  you're  a  bally  marvel." 

He  gave  an  apologetic  smile.  "  I  could  not  let  you  lose  a  bet,  sir, 
for  the  sake  of  a  little  trouble." 

Moral :  next  time  a  soldier  friend  boasts  of  his 
servant — as  they  always  do  sooner  or  later — re- 
member that  he  is  not  always  such  a  liar  as  he 
seems.  Why  the  batman  is  so  zealous  in  service 
is  another  and  much  more  important  question.  A 
German  prisoner  of  war,  monocled  and  superior 
and  hypercritical,  scoffed  at  the  laziness  of  British 
officers  in  requiring  servants ;  we  have  no  servants, 
he  boasted.  It  was  pointed  out  to  him  that  after 
action  the  British  officer  gave  his  whole  time  to 
caring  for  his  men  and  without  a  batman  would 
never  even  get  a  meal,  whereas  in  the  German 
Army  the  officer  has  nothing  to  do  but  look  after 
himself.  Hence  the  difference,  which  is  thoroughly 
well  understood  by  the  British  rank-and-file — just 
as  it  is  carefully  ignored  by  British  Bolshevists  and 
the  like  who  preach  class-warfare. 

Here  is  a  complete  short  sketch  of  a  Friday 
afternoon  in  Flanders  : — 

It  is  half-past  four  on  Friday  afternoon  in  a  village  beyond  the  line. 
The  only  difference  between  Friday  and  the  other  afternoons  is  that 
it  rains  harder  on  Fridays,  and  this  is  no  exception.  The  mile  and  a 
half  of  street  which  composes  the  village  is  ankle-deep  in  mud,  except 
where  industrious  members  of  a  salvage  company  are  sweeping  it  to 
one  side  ;  in  these  places  it  is  knee-deep.  Gloomily  surveying  the 
prospect  is  a  drenched  sentry,  who  looks  as  joyless  as  a  teetotal  pacifist. 
Equally  gloomy  are  six  stalwart  "  grenadiers  "  in  variegated  steel 
helmets  and  a  coating  of  chalk,  who  are  unloading  boxes  of  "  Grenades, 


262    THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER 

Hand  "  off  a  G.S.  waggon  with  the  contempt  bred  of  familiarity. 
They  are  observed  dispassionately  by  the  inevitable  French  peasant, 
his  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of  Brobdingnagian  pantaloons.  Up  to 
date  the  village  is  still  -"inhabited/'  but  the  attentions  of  the  Boche 
have  become  rather  pressing  during  the  past  few  days,  and  the  com- 
mencement of  an  exodus  is  marked  by  an  ancient  dame  who  is  wheeling 
two  chairs  down  the  street  on  a  co-aeval  wheelbarrow,  and  has  succeeded 
in  holding  up  a  section  of  the  Brigade  Ammunition  Column  with  its 
cargo  of  eighteen-pounder  shells.  Various  small  parties  of  damp 
infantrymen  hurry  across  the  street  on 'their  lawful  occasions,  and  a 
couple  of  sapper  officers  are  approaching  with  the  "  clip-clop  "  of 
muddy  gum-boots. 

Suddenly  all  the  figures  in  this  scene  stiffen  into  immobility  ;  there 
is  a  sound  like  a  giant  cane  being  swished  through  the  air  overhead, 
and  from  the  cottages  fifty  yards  behind  the  sentry  two  little  yellow 
mushrooms  of  smoke  and  brickdust  rise  and  float  away  on  the 
breeze. 

"  Whizz-bangs,"  says  one  of  the  sappers,  "  better  get  under  the 
church  ;  there'll  be  another  two  in  a  minute."  They  cross  the  road 
and  lean  against  the  substantial  church  wall ;  immediately  opposite 
the  corporal  of  the  guard  has  come  out  and  is  surveying  the  damage 
with  a  dubious  gaze.  "  Get  your  sentry  under  cover,  corporal," 
calls  the  sapper,  and  the  sentry  retires  with  alacrity.  The  grenadier 
party,  a  hundred  yards  further  along,  have  paid  no  attention  beyond 
a  cursory  glance  to  see  where  the  shells  pitched  ;  after  all,  if  one 
worried  over  whizz-bangs,  no  work  would  ever  be  done.  But 
the  ancient  of  the  wheelbarrow  is  already  in  a  cellar,  and  a 
driver  of  gunners  is  pushing  her  vehicle  into  the  gutter,  out  of 
the  way  of  his  waggons.  The  sapper  is  right ;  again  the  swish 
overhead,  and  the  two  mushrooms,  this  time  a  hundred  yards 
further  on,  making  the  gunner's  horses  jump  and  their  drivers 
get  to  work  with  their  whips.  At  a  lumbering  trot  the  column 
passes  up  the  street. 

The  two  sapper  officers  leave  the  sanctuary  of  the  church  wall 
and  continue  their  walk  in  the  rain.  But  before  they  have  made 
twenty  paces,  both  halt  suddenly,  and  then  with  one  accord  leap  for 
the  nearest  door.  There  is  an  ominous  sound  in  the  air,  deliberate, 
oily  and  slow,  s-s-swish,  s-s-swish — a  carpet-slippery  sound — followed 
by  a  petrifying  moment  of  silence — then  "  cr-r-r-umph  "  a  great 
cloud  of  black  smoke,  the  crash  of  masonry  and  the  air  is  full  of 
whining  fragments. 

"  Crumps,  by  Gad,"  says  the  sapper.  "  There's  a  cellar  by  the 
guard  there,"  and  the  two  officers  cross  the  road  at  a  double  and  join 
the  guard  and  two  cooks  in  a  cellar  full  of  empty  bottles  under  an 
estaminet.  The  Ammunition  Column  break  into  a  clattering  gallop, 


WILLIAM   HODGSON          263 

in  which  they  are  followed  by  the  G.S.  waggon.  Through  the  distant 
door  the  last  of  the  grenadiers  is  disappearing,  indifference  shed  like 
a  garment,  and  the  wheelbarrow  has  the  scene  to  itself.  Again  the 
distant  oily  menace  is  heard  ;  at  the  critical  moment  from  a  cottage 
door  runs  a  soldier  in  shirt  sleeves,  making  for  the_cellar  opposite. 
He  seems  to  move  incredibly  slowly.  Cr-r-umph,  and  the  recurring 
crash  and  thunder.  When  the  smoke  and  dust  clear  away,  a  shirt- 
sleeved  crumpled  form  is  lying  very  still  among  the  mud  and  rubble. 
A  thin  red  stream  mingles  with  the  rain  that  washes  into  the  gutter, 
and  round  the  legs  of  the  barrow.  In  the  distance  can  be  heard  the 
clatter  of  the  departing  column,  and  from  the  outskirts  of  the  village 
the  shattering  cough  of  English  howitzers  hurling  vengeance  into 
some  German  billet  miles  away.  The  rain  washes  down  on  the  white 
upturned  face  ;  all  is  peace  again,  and  a  grenadier  appears  in  the 
street  lighting  the  inevitable  cigarette.  Two  stretcher-bearers 
materialize  from  somewhere,  and  bear  away  the  "  casualty,"  a  gloomy 
procession.  "  La-la,"  says  the  ancient  Frenchwoman,  shaking  her 
old  head,  and  plods  away  with  her  barrow  and  the  stain  of  blood  on 
her  sabots. 

All  this  is  very  good,  and  it  is  clear  we  lost  in 
"  Smiler "  a  brilliant  chronicler  of  the  light-and- 
shade,  the  splendour  and  horror  and  humour,  of 
the  phase  of  social  life  called  war.  But  the  two 
great  poems  in  which  he  summed  up  all  his  deep 
and  soul-dividing  thought  on  the  great  ordeal  of 
battle  remain  as  part  of  the  Englishman's  spiritual 
heritage  for  all  time.  Back  to  Rest  was  com- 
posed while  marching  to  billets  after  the  fighting 
at  Loos : — 

A  leaping  wind  from  England, 

The  skies  without  a  stain, 
Clean  cut  against  the  morning 

Slim  poplars  after  rain, 
The  foolish  noise  of  sparrows 

And  starlings  in  a  wood — 
After  the  grime  of  battle 

We  know  that  these  are  good. 

Death  whining  down  from  Heaven, 
Death  roaring  from  the  ground, 


264    THE    CHRISTIAN    SOLDIER 

Death  stinking  in  the  nostril, 

Death  shrill  in  every  sound, 
Doubting  we  charged  and  conquered — 

Hopeless  we  struck  and  stood. 
Now  when  the  fight  is  ended 

We  know  that  it  was  good. 

We  that  have  seen  the  strongest 

Cry  like  a  beaten  child, 
The  sanest  eyes  unholy, 

The  cleanest  hands  defiled, 
We  that  have  known  the  heart  blood 

Less  than  the  lees  of  wine, 
We  that  have  seen  men  broken, 

We  know  man  is  divine. 

And  Before  Action,  which  shares  with  Julian 
Grenfell's  Into  Battle  the  honour  of  being  the 
greatest  of  the  new  war-poems,  is  dated  June 
,  1916 : — 

By  all  the  glories  of  the  day 

And  the  cool  evening's  benison, 
By  that  last  sunset  touch  that  lay 

Upon  the  hills  when  day  was  done, 
By  beauty  lavishly  outpoured 

And  blessings  carelessly  received, 
By  all  the  days  that  I  have  lived 

Make  me  a  soldier,  Lord. 

By  all  of  all  man's  hopes  and  fears, 

And  all  the  wonders  poets  sing, 
The  laughter  of  unclouded  years, 

And  every  sad  and  lovely  thing  ; 
By  the  romantic  ages  stored 

With  high  endeavour  that  was  his, 
By  all  his  mad  catastrophes 

Make  me  a  man,  0  Lord. 

I,  that  on  my  familiar  hill 

Saw  with  uncomprehending  eyes 
A  hundred  of  Thy  sunsets  spill 

Their  fresh  and  sanguine  sacrifice, 


WILLIAM    HODGSON          265 

Ere  the  sun  swings  his  noonday  sword 
Must  say  good-bye  to  all  of  this  ; — 

By  all  delights  that  I  shall  miss, 
Help  me  to  die,  0  Lord. 

Two  days  later  he  fell  and  was  buried  in  a 
front-line  trench  with  many  of  his  loved  and 
loving  comrades. 


THE  CANADIAN  ENTENTE 
GUY  DRUMMOND 

CANADA  is  the  most  Elizabethan  of  the 
Dominions.  The  combination  of  a  Greater 
Scotland  and  a  Greater  Normandy,  she 
offered  mankind  horizons  as  wide  as  those  of  the 
United  States.  Before  the  war  she  was  chiefly 
concerned  with  the  exploration  and  exploitation  of 
vast  natural  resources  undreamed  of  even  by 
the  "Fathers  of  Confederation."  She  then  felt 
sufficient  to  herself,  and  great  as  was  her  liking 
and  admiration  for  the  people  of  the  gigantic 
Republic  with  which  she  shared  a  continent  she 
had  no  thought  of  a  nearer  connection,  having 
within  her  far-flung  boundaries  all  things — material 
or  spiritual — that  are  necessary  to  the  full  growth 
of  a  great  nation.  In  1911,  when  she  finally 
refused  the  plan  of  American  Reciprocity,  she  may 
be  said  to  have  declined  an  offer  of  marriage  for 
the  third  time  of  asking,  preferring  to  remain  a 
sister-power  moving  "  in  maiden  meditation,  fancy 
free"  in  the  west,  like  Shakespeare's  vision  of 
Belphoebe  herself.  Her  message  to  her  mighty 
neighbour  was  poetically  rendered  as  follows  :— 

I  and  thou  by  God's  behest 
Shared  His  wonder-working  West, 
Where  the  peoples  old  on  earth 
Once  again  are  brought  to  birth — 
In  a  world  of  men  new-born, 
In  a  fresher,  fairer  morn, 
Side  by  side  we  watch  reclined, 
Face  to  face  and  mind  to  mind  ; 
Conceiving  purposes  that  run 
Westward  with  the  self-same  sun 


GUY  DRUMMOND 
(CAPTAIN,  ROYAL  HIGHLANDERS  OF  CANADA) 

Front  a  statue  by  R.  Tnit  Mackenzie 


GUY   DRUMMOND  267 

And,  dreaming  to  the  self-same  end, 
Each  to  each  might  be  a  friend. 
Side  by  side  we  watch  reclined, 
Face  to  face  and  mind  to  mind. 
But  dream  not  any  mortal  art 
Shall  make  it  ever  heart  to  heart ! 
Ah,  fool  !  To  think  thou  hast  not  seen 
The  sword  spiritual  laid  between, 
Bright  with  souls  of  heroes  shed 
To  keep  inviolate  my  bed. 
High  in  my  heaven  see  the  sign, 
A  dearer,  nearer  flag  than  thine, 
Which  ever  to  the  westering  airs 
In  sunlit  syllables  declares 
That  never  shall  thy  wooing  rude 
Break  into  my  beatitude  ! 
Love  me  ! — but  love  me  as  a  star 
That  moves  to  influences  afar. 
As  much  thou  shalt  then  take  of  me 
As  the  star's  picture  in  the  sea  ! 

The  war  has  brought  about  a  closer  union,  while 
strengthening  the  ancient  ties  of  liberty  and  loyalty 
which  make  the  British  Empire ;  for  the  dust  of 
Canadian  and  American  soldiers  is  now  commingled 
in  the  vast  battle-fields  of  the  West  Front,  and  neither 
land  can  ever  lose  that  sense  of  comradeship  in  war 
which  is  a  far  stronger  and  subtler  bond  than  any 
marriage  of  political  convenience  could  possibly  be. 
So,  when  the  war  is  over,  Canada  will  proceed  with 
the  development  of  the  heritage  which  is  her  very 
own,  thanks  to  the  bygone  toil  and  moil  of  French 
and  British  pioneers.  What  the  poet  made  her  say 
in  1911  can  be  even  more  truly  said  in  the  coming 
peace-time  :— 

I  am  the  Lady  of  the  North, 
Whence  the  high  floods  hasten  forth — 
Wild,  unwearying,  white-maned  steeds, 
I  harness  them  to  serve  my  needs  ! 
See  my  morning  glaciers  shine, 
Emeralds  in  the  far  sky-line  ; 


268    THE   CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

See  how  on  my  deathless  snows 
Evening  rests,  a  dying  rose  ; 
Where  the  ever-circling  day 
Shines  into  my  haunted  Bay, 
See  the  ice-bergs  sweep  along 
Like  a  city  in  a  song. 
Whoso  is  not  utter  clod 
These  wonders  lift  him  up  to  God. 
Mine  is  the  far-listening  plain, 
Wave  o'er  wave  of  golden  grain 
Shining,  sighing  to  no  shore, 
All  "  lives  o'  men,"  no  less,  no  more. 
My  forests  march  from  sea  to  sea, 
Perennial  in  their  pageantry  ; 
The  white-leaf 'd  poplars  call  the  rains, 
The  birch  a  maiden-ghost  remains, 
The  maple  flames  in  a  lone  hour, 
Ever  the  pine's  a  secret  tower. 
Bird  and  beast  do  so  abound, 
My  lonely  lands  seem  holy  ground, 
Edens  at  evening  where  God  stood 
And  saw  His  works  that  all  were  good. 
Many  an  orchard-close  is  mine, 
Many  a  garden  of  the  vine  : 
As  harvest  moons  at  dusk  wax  bright 
My  fruits  drink  in  the  dews  of  light 
As  luck's  lines  in  my  closed  hand 
Veins  of  wealth  I  do  command  ; 
Clenched  in  many  a  secret  hold 
Veins  of  silver,  veins  of  gold. 
Rooted  in  me,  pruned  with  my  knife, 
Each  soul  grows  to  a  tree  of  life, 
Whose  waving  branches  shall  be  seen, 
As  centuries  pass,  more  fresh  and  green. 
(Two  leaves  on  a  branch  side  by  side 
Shall  be  the  bridegroom  and  his  bride.) 
Thrice-happy  in  my  works  and  days, 
My  every  prayer's  a  song  of  praise, 
And  still  to  honour  my  great  King, 
I  waste  not,  want  not,  anything, 

Yet  all  was  not  altogether  well  with  Canada 
in  the  peace-time  past.  The  line  of  cleavage 
between  the  two  Canadian  races  was  still  so  marked 
at  times  as  to  seem  an  incurable  wound  in  the  body 


GUY    DRUMMOND  269 

politic.  There  were  faults,  no  doubt,  on  both 
sides.  The  French  Canadians  wished  to  remain  a 
people  apart,  and  a  twofold  fear — fear  of  the  rapidly- 
growing  man-power  and  money-power  of  the 
English-speaking  element  and  fear  lest  they  should 
be  drawn  into  what  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier  liked  to 
call  the  "  vortex  of  European  militarism  " — caused 
them  to  tremble  at  the  thought  of  their  Imperial 
destinies.  And  the  English-speaking  Canadians 
often  showed  a  lamentable  lack  of  sympathy  with 
their  compatriots  which  was  largely  due  to  an 
almost  invariable  ignorance  not  only  of  the  historic 
mentality  of  Ics  Canadiens  but  even  of  the  language 
they  spoke  and  of  the  literature  they  were  creating. 
"  It  would  be  easier  for  us  all,"  Sir  Wilfrid  once 
observed  in  a  conversation  with  the  writer,  "  if 
every  Canadian  could  speak  and  read  French." 
Partly  because  of  the  anti-militarism  of  Quebec  and 
partly  for  other  reasons,  Canada  was  not  contributing 
her  fair  share  of  the  military  strength  by  sea  and  by 
land  which  was  the  only  security  for  the  existence 
of  the  British  Empire  as  a  World-Power  and  as  a 
guardian  of  the  world's  peace.  Many  Canadians 
believed  they  need  not  concern  themselves  at  all  with 
European  politics  and  that  Canada  could  profitably 
hold  aloof  from  a  European  war  in  which  Great 
Britain  was  involved.  They  regarded  the  Balkan 
War  of  1912  as  a  kind  of  fight  between  mad 
dogs,  and  none  of  them  dreamed  that  a  spark  in 
the  grey  ashes  of  that  far-away  fire  was  presently 
to  kindle  a  world-wide  conflagration.  Then  the 
idea  was  widely  current  in  Canada,  especially  in 
Quebec  and  the  West,  that  the  accumulation  of 
armaments  provoked  attack — that  defencelessness 
was  the  safest  as  well  as  the  cheapest  form  of 


270    THE   CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

national  self-defence.  Ignorance  of  foreign  affairs 
was  universal  from  end  to  end  of  the  Dominion, 
and  the  significance  of  the  "  Coup  d'Agadir,"  the 
first  clear  omen  of  Germany's  intention  to  make  a 
bold  bid  for  world-dominion,  was  absolutely  ignored. 
The  average  politician  cared  less  about  such  matters 
than  any  other  class  of  the  community — for  politics 
had  become  merely  a  contest  between  the  "  Ins  "  and 
the  "  Outs,"  in  which  the  chance  of  pillaging  the 
public  was  the  partisan's  chief  inducement  to  get 
busy.  The  great  captains  of  industry,  commerce 
and  finance  did  not  care  to  soil  their  hands  by 
taking  any  personal  part  in  the  political  game ;  they 
looked  on  the  politicians  as  marionettes,  whose 
wires  could  always  be  judiciously  pulled  in  the 
case  of  need.  In  Canada,  as  in  the  United  States, 
the  young  man  of  wealth  and  culture  held  aloof 
from  what  seemed  to  him  a  rather  dirty  business, 
forgetting  that  it  is  every  good  citizen's  first  duty 
to  put  an  end  to  corruption  and  see  that  his  country 
is  decently  governed. 

It  was  not  so  with  Guy  Drummond,  who  decided 
at  an  early  age  to  follow  the  example  of  the 
wealthy  leisured  class  in  Great  Britain  and  make 
politics  his  vocation,  fitting  himself  for  it  by  a 
careful  study  of  political  science  and  foreign  affairs. 
He  was  the  younger  son  of  the  late  Sir  George 
Drummond,  K.C.M.G.,  formerly  President  of  the 
Bank  of  Montreal — one  of  Canada's  most  famous 
"  statesmen-capitalists,"  and  a  lover  of  art  whose 
collection  bore  witness  to  his  profound  knowledge 
of  the  French  master-painters.  He  was  born  on 
August  1 5th,  1887,  and  was  educated  at  St  John's 
School,  Montreal  (his  native  city),  Bradfield,  in 


GUY    DRUMMOND  271 

England,  and  L'Ecole  Libre  des  Sciences  Politiques 
(1909-1911)  at  Paris.  The  Drummonds  have 
always  been  strong  and  purposeful  and  gifted  with 
a  full  share  of  cautious  tenacity — their  motto, 
"  Gang  warily,"  was  won  by  the  founder  of  the 
house  at  Bannockburn  when  thought  of  using 
caltrops  to  lame  the  enemy's  horses  and  check  the 
massed  charge  of  the  pennon'd  host  of  southern 
knights.  Guy  Drummond  had  the  gift  of  vision 
as  well  as  the  ancestral  qualities  of  his  long- 
descended  family,  and  he  saw  that  Canada  needed 
political  leaders  who  could  see  Canadian  affairs  in 
the  just  perspective  of  world-politics,  and  would 
not  be  tempted  to  seek  personal  advantages  in 
public  life.  Even  when  he  was  a  boy  the  strength 
of  his  purposeful  personality  was  recognized  by  the 
connoisseurs  of  men  in  the  making,  such  as  Dr 
H.  B.  Gray,  who  was  Headmaster  of  Bradfield 
College  during  his  stay  there.  Here  is  Dr  Gray's 
appreciation,  written  at  the  request  of  the  author 
of  this  brief  memoir  : — 

Guy  Drummond  was  only  at  Bradfield  for  a  short  period  during 
his  school  career.  When  he  came  he  was  a  thin,  weedy  lad  who  had 
clearly  outgrown  his  strength,  though  his  physical  frame  gave  evidence 
that  he  would  develop  into  a  powerfully  built  man. 

But  no  one  who  was  an  expert  in  boyhood  could  mistake  his  un- 
usual strength  of  character.  From  the  first  day  of  his  entrance  into 
college,  he  was  a  personality.  Though  a  complete  stranger  to  our 
insular  habits  and  the  general  type  to  which  boys  from  the  usual 
Preparatory  Schools  almost  inevitably  conform,  he  took  his  place 
with  consummate  ease  and  self-possession.  Without  being  a  prig 
he  bore  himself  with  a  dignity  which  suggested  an  inherited  or  natural 
power  of  command.  This  characteristic  attracted  and  fascinated 
the  masters  and  boys  with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 

His  earlier  scholastic  training,  which  had  not  been  conducted  on 
the  familiar  English  lines,  prevented  him  from  being  conspicuous 
in  the  class-room.  But  he  never  made  foolish  slips.  An  innate  tact 
made  him  silent  when  others  blurted  and  blundered,  and  those  who 


272    THE    CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

looked  below  discovered  traces  of  a  big  mind  and  the  promise  of  a 
wide  view  of  life. 

It  was  a  cause  of  real  sadness  to  me  personally,  as  his  Headmaster, 
that  his  physical  delicacy,  due  to  a  phenomenal  upgrowth,  made  his 
parents  and  doctors  advise  a  more  vigorous  climate  and  a  closer 
personal  supervision  than  the  atmosphere  of  a  Public  School  in  the 
Thames  Valley  could  possibly  supply. 

From  my  knowledge  of  his  early  years  and  of  his  after  life,  I  do  not 
think  it  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  his  premature  sacrifice  on  the 
field  of  battle  was  not  only  a  bereavement  to  his  friends  but  also  a 
loss  to  the  Empire  at  large. 

At  M'Gill  University  his  intellectual  gifts 
blossomed  to  fruition,  and  his  studies  at  the  Paris 
Ecole  Libre  des  Sciences  Politiques  put  a  keen 
edge  on  a  mind  which  was  manifestly  destined— 
so  all  his  contemporaries  believed — to  find  solutions 
of  many  Canadian  problems.  He  was  as  popular 
in  Paris  as  in  Canada.  The  brightness  of  his  soul, 
as  all  could  see,  was  not  dimmed  by  any  shadow 
of  self-seeking.  He  had  a  perfect  mastery  not 
only  of  the  French  language  but  also  of  that 
French  politesse  which  is  much  more  than  a 
matter  of  tact  and  taste,  being  really  a  sort  of 
enacted  humanism  based  on  a  genuine  love  of 
human  nature  and  a  generous  confidence  in  its 
possibilities.  The  Frenchman — and  even  more  the 
French  Canadian,  be  it  well  understood — takes  it 
as  an  act  of  courtesy  when  a  man  of  another  race 
speaks  to  him  in  his  own  language ;  and  if  the 
other  speaks  French  well  and  with  the  wit  and 
wisdom  inherent  in  what  is  the  most  logical  and 
versatile  medium  ever  devised  for  social  intercourse, 
as  well  as  for  the  exchange  of  ideas,  he — the 
Frenchman  and  even  more  the  French  Canadian — 
feels  a  glow  of  pleasure  which  can  hardly  be  ex- 
pressed in  mere  words.  In  speaking  with  French- 


GUYDRUMMOND  273 

men  of  French  Canadians  Guy  Drummond  always 
found  the  mot  juste  without  searching  for  it ;  he 
instinctively  said  the  right  thing  at  the  right 
moment  in  the  right  way.  Here  is  an  example 
of  this  happy  faculty.  In  June  1911  (the 
story  is  told  in  a  brief  obituary  in  the  supplement 
to  the  Revue  des  Sciences  Politiques  for  August 
1 5th,  1915)  he  was  travelling  in  the  picturesque 
and  opulent  countryside  between  Melun  and 
Coulommiers,  where  the  British  G.H.Q.  were 
established  during  the  First  Battle  of  the  Marne. 
The  sight  of  the  rich  crops,  the  large  and  well- 
found  farms,  the  giant  beeches — all  the  beauty  and 
wealth  of  a  fair  garden-land  in  the  mellow  light 
of  a  cloudless  mid-summer  day — prompted  Guy 
Drummond  to  express  his  admiration.  He  turned 
and  said  to  his  travelling  companion  :  "  Maintenant 
je  comprends  bten  1'expression :  douce  France" 
It  was  the  word  that  would  most  appeal  to  a 
Frenchman ;  for  it  is  a  word  that  dominates  French 
literature,  from  the  chivalrous  epic  of  Roland  at 
Roncevaux  onward,  and  expresses  in  a  sigh  of 
deep  happiness,  as  it  were,  that  devotion  to  the 
beautiful,  abounding  soil  which  is  the  secret  of 
French  patriotism.  It  will  be  seen  how  well  fitted 
this  young  Canadian  was  to  create  new  intellectual 
links  between  France  and  his  own  country  and  also 
to  complete  the  reconciliation  of  the  two  races  that 
have  built  up  the  stately  fabric  of  modern  Trans- 
continental Canada.  If  he  had  lived,  he  would 
have  lived  to  see  his  ambition  realized — to  behold 
these  two  liberty-loving  races  finally  united  in  life,  as 
Wolfe  and  Montcalm  were  united  in  death. 

When  he  returned  to  Canada  Guy  Drummond 
did  everything  in   his  power  to  encourage   among 


274    THE    CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

his  compatriots  a  wider  and  deeper  knowledge  of 
France  and  the  French  language.  Each  year  he 
gave  a  young  Canadian  the  opportunity  of  attending 
the  Ecole  Libre,  paying  the  whole  of  his  expenses— 
a  fact  known  only  to  a  few  very  intimate  friends. 
His  encouragement  of  French  studies,  apart  even  from 
itsxspecial  value  in  Canada,  was  an  act  of  imaginative 
statesmanship.  His  example  ought  to  be  generally 
followed  in  the  mother  country  and  in  the  other 
daughter  lands.  Whatever  be  the  changes  and 
chances  of  world-politics  after  the  war,  this  at 
least  is  certain — we  can  never  again  think  of  the 
French  people  as  other  than  our  nearest  and 
dearest  friends  beyond  the  narrow  seas.  The  dust 
of  so  many  myriads  of  French  and  English  soldiers 
has  been  mingled  together  in  the  vast  battle-field 
of  the  Western  Front — in  the  Via  Sacra  of  Douglas 
Gillespie's  wonderful  letter  to  his  old  school- 
that  the  mutual  sympathy  and  confidence  which 
now  unite  us  can  never  fade  away  into  a  cold 
and  calculating  indifference.  The  Entente  is  the 
two-handed  crusader's  sword  which  is  hewing 
Germany  in  pieces  before  the  Lord.  For  genera- 
tions to  come  it  will  be  the  mightiest  safeguard  of 
the  world's  peace.  But  the  greatness  of  France,  so 
gloriously  revealed  in  our  armed  alliance,  is  even 
more  majestical  in  the  world  of  ideas — and  there  we 
shall  lose  half  the  benefits  of  our  battle-welded  in- 
timacy if  we  do  not  take  pains  to  acquire  an  accurate 
understanding  of  the  French  language.  To  speak 
it  well  is,  perhaps,  generally  beyond  our  unskilful 
tongues— but  we  can  at  any  rate  learn  to  read  it  aright. 

As    things    are,    the    grossest    errors    in    French 
translation   are    constantly  recurring    in   books  and 


GUY    DRUMMOND  275 

journals  written  in  English.  It  seems  hopeless  to 
think  of  extirpating  such  blunders  as  morale  for 
moral,  Bosche  for  Boche,  nom  de  plume  for  pseu- 
donyme,  double  entendre,  "  the  tout  ensemble"  etc. 
These  howlers,  however,  which  seem  to  be  a  vested 
interest  of  all  British  journalism,  are  comparatively 
innocuous.  Other  inaccuracies,  by  no  means  in- 
frequent even  in  the  cultured  Press,  have  much 
more  dangerous  consequences.  For  example,  the 
popular  notion  that  revanche  means  revenge  in  the 
vindictive  sense — a  misconception  I  have  heard 
turned  to  account  by  a  defeatist  M.P.  who  said,  in 
conversation,  that  we  ought  not  to  go  on  fighting  the 
poor  Germans  merely  to  gratify  France's  unholy  lust 
for  vengeance !  Even  as  used  in  Paul  Deroulede's 
famous  lines,  which  have  the  look  of  a  prophecy 
to-day — 

Et  la  revanche  doit  venir,  lente  peut-etre, 
Mais  en  tout  cas  fatale,  et  terrible  a  coup  sur — 

the  word  had  not  the  dark,  transpontine  colouring 
imputed  to  it ;  all  it  held  in  it  was  the  idea  of  a 
return  match,  or  getting  one's  own  back,  which 
would  show  that  the  disasters  of  1870-71  were  due 
to  misfortune,  not  a  real  inferiority.  As  for  the 
mistranslations  of  French  official  and  military  com- 
munications since  the  war  began,  they  have  been 
past  counting,  though  in  no  single  case,  fortunately, 
have  they  had  any  harmful  result.  The  translation 
of  un  beau  tableau  (used  of  seven  German  aeroplanes 
and  a  Zeppelin  shot  down  in  one  short  sector),  as 
"  a  fine  picture,"  is  a  case  in  point.  It  means,  of 
course,  "  a  fine  bag  " ;  tableau  is  here  used  of  game 
laid  out  for  inspection  after  the  Continental  custom. 
And  the  renderings  of  observations  by  French 


276    THE    CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

military  experts  (the  best  in  that  business — far 
better  than  ours !)  are  often  so  clumsy  as  to  be 
meaningless,  the  translators  being  absurdly  ignorant 
of  French  military  terms.  .  .  .  Morally  and  in  the 
political  sense  the  Entente  is  now  fully  a  fait 
accompli.  But  it  must  be  made  a  great  intellectual 
force,  and  that  can  only  be  done  by  raising  the 
standard  of  French  studies  throughout  the  British 
Empire  on  the  lines  worked  out  by  Guy  Drummond. 

He  had  been  in  touch  with  the  young  generation 
of  Frenchmen — the  realist  generation  which  worked 
and  played  hard  and  was  no  longer  content  with 
amorous  adventures — and  must  have  known  that 
a  German  war  could  not  be  long  avoided. 
Among  the  young  open-air  Frenchmen  who  came 
of  age  between  the  "  Coup  d'Agadir "  and  the 
Sarajevo  affair  there  was  never  any  doubt  that 
Germany  was  preparing  for  Armageddon.  It  is 
true  they  very  seldom  spoke  of  the  coming  danger 
which  some  of  them  thought  might  yet  be  averted 
by  the  rising  tide  of  Socialism  in  Germany — for- 
getting that  this  very  menace  to  the  Hohenzollern 
regime  would  be  yet  another  secret  argument  in 
favour  of  a  vast  military  adventure  with  those 
who  still  believed  that  war  ought  to  remain  Prussia's 
chief  national  industry.  Gambetta's  "  Think  of 
it  ever,  talk  of  it  never,"  was  the  thought  of 
the  young  French  patriots  who  were  instinctively 
preparing  their  bodies  and  their  souls  to  prevent  a 
second  German  invasion.  Agriculture  and  politics 
were  Guy  Drummond's  chief  occupations  when 
he  went  home  to  marry  and  devote  his  life  to  the 
service  of  his  city  and  his  country.  But  the 
military  preparedness  of  Canada  was  his  chief 


GUY    DRUMMOND  277 

preoccupation  and,  as  an  officer  in  the  Canadian 
Militia,  he  had  been  trained  for  his  final  task  when 
the  storm  broke.  The  call  came  and  he  obeyed 
at  once,  leaving  his  young  wife  (he  married  in 
April  1914)  and  his  great  possessions  and  all  the 
happy  activities  of  a  joyous  home-life  and  a  public 
career  already  well  begun.  He  volunteered  with 
the  Active  Service  Battalion  of  his  Regiment 
(i3th  Canadian  Infantry,  Royal  Highlanders  of 
Canada),  taking  a  commission  as  Captain,  and 
almost  immediately  sailed  for  France. 

He  fell  at  Langemarck — indeed  he  was  probably 
the  first  to  fall  in  the  wonderful  battle  against  over- 
whelming odds  which  was  a  spiritual  birthday  of 
the  Canadian  nation.  What  befell  at  Langemarck 
will  never  be  forgotten  in  Canada  or  in  any  other 
of  the  Allied  lands.  It  was  there  that  the  Germans 
used  poison-gas  for  the  first  time,  and  the  Division 
on  the  left  flank  of  the  Canadians  broke  before  the 
yellow  mist  of  choke-damp  rolling  on  them,  and 
fled  in  hopeless  confusion.  The  attack  was  utterly 
unexpected,  and  the  first  information  the  Canadians 
had  of  it,  after  the  order  to  "  stand  to  "  had  been 
given  from  the  front  trenches,  was  the  sight  of 
Turcos  streaming  past  in  wild  panic.  The  dyke 
was  down,  and  a  furious  bombardment  was  followed 
by  a  massed  German  attack.  The  left  flank  and 
left  rear  of  the  Canadians  were  exposed,  and  a  great 
disaster  would  have  befallen  the  Allies — perhaps 
necessitating  a  very  extensive  and  difficult  retreat — 
if  they  had  failed  to  rise  to  so  tremendous  an 
occasion.  They  neither  failed  nor  faltered ;  after 
days  of  hand-to-hand  fighting,  in  which  every  man 
had  to  do  the  work  of  a  dozen  and  show,  further- 


278    THE   CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

more,  a  degree  of  intelligence  and  initiative  hardly 
to  be  expected  of  veterans,  the  German  rush  was 
dammed  up  and  the  breach  in  the  Allied  line 
repaired.  Langemarck  is  one  of  the  most  glorious 
episodes  in  the  war,  and  all  the  glory  is  Canada's 
now  and  for  ever.  It  was  a  greater  Thermopylae, 
in  which  the  deadliest  resources  of  scientific  savagery 
were  utilized  unexpectedly,  and  it  taught  military 
critics  that  the  trained  citizen  soldiers  of  the  great 
Dominion  were  the  equals  of  any  professional  troops 
the  world  has  ever  seen. 

When  the  German  shell-fire  was  turned  directly 
on  the  Canadian  trenches,  Drummond  ordered  his 
men  into  the  shelter  of  the  dug-outs.  By  that  time 
more  of  the  Algerians  were  streaming  past,  and  being 
able  to  speak  French  Drummond  went  out  into  the 
road  to  stem  the  flood  and  rally  the  fugitives.  He 
could  do  nothing  with  them,  so  returned  to  his  own 
platoon  and  brought  them  out  to  hold  the  road, 
walking  up  and  down  among  them,  talking  to  each 
man  and  cheering  him  up,  and  seeing  that  they  took 
the  best  cover  that  was  available.  For  a  minute  or 
two  he  left  them,  returning  with  Major  Nors worthy. 
The  Germans  were  now  within  a  hundred  yards  and 
their  fire  was  intense.  The  two  officers  were  standing 
together  and  were  hit  simultaneously — Drummond 
through  the  neck,  and  he  died  in  a  few  minutes. 
His  last  words  to  his  men  were :  u  Stick  to  it,  boys. 
We  will  get  through  them  somehow."  The  scene 
of  his  death  is  vividly  presented  in  the  letters  written 
to  his  wife  and  his  mother  by  brother-officers  and 
the  men  of  his  battalion.  First  we  see  the  long, 
low-lying  green  cloud  appearing  and  brooding  above 
the  French  lines ;  then  the  panic-stricken  Turcos 


GUY    DRUMMOND  279 

streaming  past,  many  of  them  moving  as  if  dazed ; 
lastly  the  tall  figure — like  Saul,  the  son  of  Kish,  he 
stood  head  and  shoulders  above  his  people — with 
intent  face  and  bright  hair,  standing  in  the  white 
road  and  striving  to  rally  the  fugitives.  The  artless 
letter  of  his  soldier  servant  to  Mrs  Drummond  is 
perhaps  the  most  touching  of  innumerable  tributes 
to  his  worth  as  a  soldier  and  a  man,  and  adds  a 
precious  detail  to  the  brief  story  of  his  ending  : — 

As  I  was  the  Captain's  servant  I  am  writing  these  lines  to  you, 
because  Captain  Drummond  asked  me  to  write  to  you  if  anything 
happened  to  him,  as  he  was  going  to  do  the  same  for  me  if  anything 
happened  to  me.  Well,  Madam,  I  don't  know  if  you  have  heard  the 
true  story  of  your  poor  husband's  death.  It  was  on  Thursday  night, 
the  22nd,  that  the  battle  started.  I  was  just  getting  ready  to  cook 
the  supper  for  him  when  the  French  Turcos  came  running  down 
towards  us,  as  we  were  in  the  reserve  trenches  they  came  down,  some 
with  rifles  and  some  without.  As  soon  as  they  got  to  where  we  were, 
a  terrific  shelling  started,  so  that  we  all  had  to  get  into  our  dug-outs 
and  we  could  not  move.  Well,  the  Germans  were  approaching  rather 
near,  and  we  had  to  get  out  and  look  after  them. 

I  rushed  out  and  put  on  your  husband's  equipment  and  see  that 
his  revolvers  was  all  right,  and  then  we  lined  the  ditch  on  the  road. 
In  the  meantime  more  of  these  French  black  fellows  was  still  coming, 
and  the  shelling  was  something  fierce,  with  poisonous  gas  and  lyddite, 
it  was  awful ;  well,  when  we  got  into  the  road  the  rifle  and  machine 
gun  fire  was  very  hot  indeed.  Major  Nors worthy  was  injured  and 
he  sent  me  on  a  message.  When  I  got  back  your  poor  husband  was 
gone,  the  last  thing  I  see  him  doing  was  trying  to  rally  these  Turcos, 
he  was  talking  to  them  in  French,  he  was  trying  to  lead  them  on  in 
battle,  but  they  were  too  nervous.  Your  husband  walked  up  and 
down  the  road,  cheering  and  jollying  us  up  and  speaking  to  each  one 
of  us.  Well,  Mrs  Drummond,  your  husband  was  shot  through  the 
throat,  and  him  and  Norsworthy  both  fell  together ;  there  .was  one 
thing  I  was  glad  for,  your  husband  got  a  few  Germans  before  he  went 
under ;  and  another,  he  did  not  suffer,  his  last  words  were  to  cheer 
the  boys  up.  Madam,  the  Captain  was  one  of  the  bravest  men  that 
ever  I  see,  he  use  to  love  us  boys  and  we  all  use  to  love  him,  and  the 
boys  miss  him  keenly,  and  of  course  they  wish  me  to  say  that  they 
wish  to  express  their  sympathies  to  you  in  your  trouble,  and  I  am 
sure  that  I  do  the  same,  and  there  are  not  many  left  now,  there  are 


28o    THE    CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

only  a  dozen  of  us.  We  all  hope  you  will  bear  up  brave  in  your 
bereavement,  and  the  boys  wish  you  to  convey  to  his  mother  a  message 
of  condolence,  hoping  both  you  and  his  mother  will  bear  up  under 
such  trying  circumstances. 

This  letter,  which  bears  witness  to  the  comradeship 
of  the  Great  War,  should  be  compared  with  the 
message  of  Captain  Hugh  Charlton's  orderly.  The 
loss  of  this  young  Canadian  soldier  was  sincerely 
deplored,  as  a  loss  to  Canada  and  the  Empire,  in 
numerous  letters  to  his  wife  and  relations.  M. 
Maurice  Barres  and  other  distinguished  Frenchmen 
paid  their  tribute  of  proud  regret  to  a  true  lover  of 
"  la  douce  France."  M.  Jacques  Coeur,  writing  in 
a  Montreal  journal,  re-echoed  their  homage  in  the 
following  valedictory : — 

Nous  croyons  que  le  premier  devoir  de  tout  citoyen  est  de  con- 
sacrer  ses  energies,  son  talent,  toute  sa  vie  au  pays  ou  il  est  ne  ou 
qu'il  a  fait  librement  sien. 

Le  lieutenant  Guy  Drummond  possedait  esprit,  instruction  et 
fortune.  II  avait  sur  un  trop  grand  nombre  de  ses  fr£res  anglo- 
canadiens  (il  n'aurait  pas  permis  qu'on  1'appelat  ainsi  de  son  vivant, 
car  il  etait  £cossais,  mais  non  pas  Anglais,  disait-il),  Pincomparable 
avantage  de  connaitre  notre  langue,  de  la  parler  avec  facilite  et  agre- 
ment.  II  aurait  pu  rendre  d'utiles  services,  dans  un  pays  ou  son 
p£re  a  fait  sa  fortune  et  sa  reputation.  Comme  le  faisait  remarquer 
un  penseur,  il  a  choisi  la  conception  la  plus  brillante  du  devoir,  qui 
n'est  peut-etre  pas  la  plus  utile.  Mais  combien  facilement  nous  nous 
inclinons  sur  sa  tombe  !  Riche,  jeune,  beau — il  etait  taille  en  Hercule, 
— il  etait  convaincu  qu'il  se  devait  a  la  cause  imperiale.  II  n'a  pas 
fait  de  discours  ;  il  n'a  pas  ecrit  d'articles  dans  les  journaux ;  il  n'a 
pas  joue  au  sergent  recruteur.  II  a  pris  modestement  son  rang  dans 
le  contingent  canadien,  et  il  est  parti,  sans  eclat,  avec  son  corps.  II 
est  tombe.  Saluons  sa  tombe,  c'est  celle  d'un  heros. 

Nous  devons  meme,  comme  supreme  hommage  a  sa  memoire, 
transmettre  a  nos  compatriotes  la  Ie9on  qu'il  nous  donna  un  jour  que, 
ne  le  connaissant  pas  encore,  nous  lui  adressames  la  parole  en  anglais. 
"  Pourquoi  vous  plaindre  toujours,  disait-il,  de  ce  que  nous  ne  parlons 
pas  le  fran9ais,  puisque  vous  ne  manquez  pas  une  occasion  de  nous 
parler  anglais  ?  " 

Guy  Drummond  aimait  parler  francais,  et  a  cause  de  cela  aussi 
nous  le  regrettons.  II  etait  un  de  ceux  qui  auraient  pu  le  mieux  aider 


GUY    DRUMMOND  281 

a  ramener  1'entente  entre  les  deux  grandes   races  du   pays,  etant 
admirablement  qualifie  pour  remplir  ce  role  d 'intermediate. 

But  the  most  notable  of  all  was  the  following  tribute 
by  Professor  Macnaughton  of  M'Gill  University  : — 

How  splendid  Langemarck  was  !  How  glorious  the  end  of  Guy 
Drummond.  He  was  the  first  to  fall  of  that  band  of  heroes  whose 
death  will  be,  I  believe,  a  new  birth  of  Canada  ;  at  on'ce  a  Bethlehem 
and  a  Calvary.  One  thinks  of  Protesilaus,  the  first  to  leap  upon  the 
Trojan  shore  though  he  knew  well  that  he  must  pay  the  proud  penalty 
of  the  pioneer.  He  looked  the  part  in  his  heroic  stature,  like  Saul, 
the  son  of  Kish,  towering  by  a  head  and  shoulders  over  the  people. 
A  great  loss  indeed,  to  M'Gill  especially.  He  was  a  graduate  of  ours 
and  a  great  benefactor.  But  the  loss  is  a  thousand  times  swallowed 
up  in  the  gain.  He  that  loses  his  life  shall  find  not  only  his  own  but 
his  people's.  By  that  end  he  did  more  for  Canada  than  if  he  had 
gone  on  to  live  five  hundred  years.  And  for  himself  how  can  it  be 
otherwise  than  well  with  him  ?  He  is  in  the  best  of  company  indeed 
— in. that  other  young  man's  who  "  did  so  well  for  himself  "  as  Walt 
Whitman  says,  and  for  us,  nineteen  hundred  and  fifteen  years  ago.  "  In 
a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  "  he  was  changed,  and  passed 
into  everlasting x  efficacy  among  the  starry  forces  which  keep  our 
dull  earth  sweet  and  draw  it  upwards  irresistibly  ;  for  himself,  can 
we  doubt  ?  that  or  ever  he  knew  it  he  had  exchanged  the  dust  and 
stench  and  labour  for  living  waters  and  immortal  flowers  and  verdure. 
.0  death  where  is  thy  sting  ?  0  grave  where  is  thy  victory  ?  The 
sting  as  ever  is  in  the  heart  of  the  "  mater  dolorosa."  But  it  is  a 
high  and  noble  sorrow,  worth  a  whole  world  of  shallow  joys. 

Such  a  bereavement  enriches  and  raises  to  the  true  peerage  both 
of  earth  and  heaven.  It  would  be  sheer  atheism  to  condole  with  the 
dead  and  re-arisen  Christ's  mother,  or  with  the  mother  of  any  son 
who  has  shared  his  death  and  rising  again.  These  cannot  sorrow  as 
those  who  have  no  hope. 

And  that  is  the  best  thing  Guy  Drummond  and  the  others  have 
done  for  us.  They  have  shown  us  once  more  what  we  needed  so 
much  to  be  revealed  again — the  real  meaning  of  Christianity — the 
true  "  religion  of  valour."  That  is  above  all  what  is  to  stand  out 
clear  to  the  world  "  throned  in  heaven's  immortal  noon,"  the  inner- 
most secret  of  the  universe,  the  one  creative  power  that  is  so  busy 
just  now  in  fashioning  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth,  the  Cross  of 
Christ. 

The  historic  "  ire  of  the  Drummonds  "  has  long 
since  avenged  the  Protesilaus  of  Langemarck,  the 


282    THE   CANADIAN    ENTENTE 

battlefield  with  a  name  that  is  a  sacring-bell  in 
Canadian  remembrance  for  all  time.  As  head  of 
the  Canadian  Red  Cross  Information  Bureau,  and 
Assistant  Commissioner  of  the  Canadian  Red  Cross 
Society,  his  mother,  Lady  Drummond,  has  built  for 
him  a  memorial  of  loving  service.  He  missed  the 
life  of  busy,  various,  unselfish  usefulness  he  had 
planned  for  himself — it  may  yet  be  lived,  however, 
by  his  posthumous  son. 


Doi-fr  Street  Studios 


THE    HON.    GERALD   WILLIAM    GRENFELL 

(LIEUTENANT,  RIFLE  BRIGADE) 
AS  A  ROMAN  CENTURION 


CASTOR  AND  POLLUX 
JULIAN  AND  BILLY  GRENFELL 

Like  Castor  and  Pollux  they  are  together  now,  shining  in  some  other 
place.  How  different  the  most  terrible  sorrow  is  to  the  blight  of  misery, 
isn't  it  ?  If  there  is  any  meaning  in  life  at  a!/,  then  there  must  be  some- 
thing beyond  this  life  ;  and  if  there  is,  then  all  question  of  despair  is 
eliminated.  If  there  is  not,  if  one  were  inclined  to  think  that  life  after  all 
might  be  a  bad  joke  or  a  stupid  blunder ;  then  one  is  faced  'with  the  difficulty 
of  accounting  for  the  fields,  the  honeysuckle  and  the  blossom,  the  sunset  and 
the  dawn  and  the  night,  the  Parthenon,  Shakespeare,  St  Francis,  Beethoven, 
Velasquez,  Shelley,  the  very  existence  of  such  radiant  beings  as  Julian  and 
Billy.  They  must  have  been  the  expression  and  part  of  something,  and 
that  something  cannot  have  been  impish  or  wicked  or  mistaken.  To  make 
up  the  harmony  of  the  world,  to  make  an  inheritance  glorious  and  worth 
having,  the  youthful  death  of  the  very  bright  and  the  very  brave  is,  I  have 
always  felt,  not  only  a  necessary  but  a  precious  element.  Glorious  sorrow 
is  as  necessary,  is  as  priceless,  as  the  nightingale  or  the  evening  star. 

THIS  passage,  which  justifies  the  title  for  the 
last  chapter  of  this  book,  is  taken  from  a 
letter  of  heart-felt  sympathy  written  by 
Maurice  Baring  to  their  mother  in  the  summer  of 
the  year  they  died  on  the  Western  Front.  The 
letter  is  one  of  many  tributes  to  their  memory 
(which  is  one  and  indivisible,  for  they  cannot  be 
separated  even  in  a  stranger's  thought)  which  are 
printed  in  Pages  from  a  Family  Journal^  a 
record  of  the  sayings  and  doings,  the  works  and 
the  days,  of  her  children,  by  Lady  Desborough. 
It  is  a  book  unlike  any  other  book  of  the  kind 
I  know ;  a  book  with  an  atmosphere  of  happiness 
and  the  joyousness  of  youth  and  natural  loving- 
kindness  which  illuminates  all  its  contents  with  a 
delight  from  within  that  can  never  fade  away. 
It  is  so  full  of  intimate  thoughts,  of  such  tender 
privacies,  that  it  can  never  be  given  to  the  public 
in  this  generation.  But  the  time  will  come  when 
the  reading  of  its  glad  sad  pages  will  touch  even 


283 


284        CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

the  heart  of  the  dry-as-dust  historian — the  sifter 
of  infinitesimal  facts  in  search  of  facts  for  his 
picture  of  English  family  life  in  the  era  of  the 
Great-  War — to  a  sense  of  the  tears  in  all  things 
under  the  sun  and  moon.  It  will  survive  as 
living  part  of  the  Grammata  whereby,  as  Gilbert 
Murray  said  in  a  beautiful  discourse  on  the  neces- 
sity of  Greek  and  Latin  books,  "  we  find  oui 
escape  into  that  calm  world  of  theirs,  where 
stridency  and  clamour  are  forgotten  in  the  former 
stillness,  where  the  strong  iron  is  long  since  rusted 
and  the  rocks  of  granite  broken  into  dust,  but  the 
great  things  of  the  human  spirit  still  shine  lik< 
stars  pointing  man's  way  onward  to  the  great 
triumph  or  the  great  tragedy,  and  even  the  little 
things,  the  beloved  and  tender  and  funny  and 
familiar  things,  beckon  across  gulfs  of  death  and 
change  with  a  magic  poignancy,  the  old  things  that 
our  dead  leaders  and  forefathers  loved,  viva  adhuc 
et  desiderio  pulcriora"  *  It  is  appropriate  that 
I  should  here  quote  the  words  of  the  great  scholar 
who  has  not  brought  the  classics  down  to  the 
people,  but  the  people  up  to  the  classics.  For 
when  Julian  Grenfell  lay  dying  of  his  wound, 
death  having  already  broken  into  the  high  places 
of  his  commanding  intellect,  he  repeated  aloud 
this  song,  in  the  Professor's  translation,  from  the 
Hippolytus  as  a  charm  of  coolness  against  the  great 
heat  of  the  Military  Hospital  at  Boulogne  :— 

0  for  a  deep  and  dewy  spring, 
With  runlets  cool  to  draw  and  drink, 
And  a  great  meadow  blossoming, 
Long-grassed,  and  poplars  in  a  ring, 
To  rest  me  by  the  brink. 

1  Living  still  and  more  beautiful  because  of  our  longing. 


JULIAN   &   BILLY  GRENFELL    285 

0,  take  me  to  the  mountain  ;  0, 
Past  the  great  pines  and  through  the  wood, 
Up  where  the  lean  hounds  softly  go, 
A- whine  for  wild  things'  blood, 
And  madly  flies  the  dappled  roe. 
0  God,  t6  shout  and  speed  them  there, 
An  arrow  by  my  chestnut  hair 
Drawn  tight,  and  one  keen  glimmering  spear — 
Ah,  if  I  could  ! 

As  a  charm  of  coolness,  for  the  song  runs  limpid 
in  its  lucid  English,  and  also  for  remembrance  of 
his  own  great  days  of  hunting  by  field  and  flood 
and  heathery  hill,  which  were  ended  for  evermore ! 
His  mother's  secret  and  sacred  book  of  memories 
is  full  of  such  piercing  oxymora  which  those  who 
read  it  in  the  far  future  will  but  dimly  apprehend. 
Yet  I  can  imagine  the  reader  with  no  Latin  at 
all  and  less  than  no  Greek  (for  the  classics  are  to 
go  because  they  are  such  "  class-conscious "  studies, 
revealing  the  folly  of  democracy  as  a  process  of 
levelling-down  instead  of  levelling-up !)  uttering  his 
grace  for  this  book.  He  will  not  say  Benedictus 
benedicat — but  will  imitate  the  deep,  illiterate 
wisdom  of  the  old  mendicant  monk  in  the  Bene- 
dictine refectory,  and  gasp  out  his  Francis cus  fran- 
ciscaf.  For  it  is  a  book  of  love  through  and 
through,  and  Franciscan  from  cover  to  cover. 

The  two  brothers  were  leaders,  athletes,  scholars, 
men  of  letters,  adepts  in  courtesy,  by  right  of 
inheritance.  Their  father  was  one  of  the  most 
famous  of  Oxford  oarsmen,  and  an  accomplished 
all-round  sportsman  who  persisted  in  feeling  and 
looking  young  when  for  most  men  the  swift,  slippery 
descent  of  middle  age  begins.  Even  his  political 
opponents  could  not  forget  his  feat  of  swimming 
the  Niagara  Rapids,  as  a  famous  F.E.G.  cartoon 


286        CASTOR   AND    POLLUX 

reminds  us.  From  their  mother  and  their  maternal 
grandfather,  Julian  Fane,  they  inherited  a  passion- 
ate aptitude  for  letters  which  was  developed  in  the 
early  home  training — in  the  fateful  years  from  five 
to  ten  when,  as  experts  in  child-study  assure  us, 
the  trend  of  an  intelligence  is  finally  determined. 

Before  he  was  five  years  old  the  literary  faculty 
began  to  show  itself  in  the  younger  brother,  whose 
"  History  of  the  Family J:  (it  was  dictated)  is  a 
delightful  document.  It  begins :  "  Billy  is  a  good 
boy,  but  his  Dada  will  never  in  the  winter  stop  at 
home.  He  is  a  tall  man.  But  his  wife  is  a  good 
woman.  She  reads  to  her  boys  every  evening,  and 
plays  with  the  little  baby."  There  is  much  humour 
in  a  "  but "  as  used  by  this  chronicler — humour  of 
the  irrelevant  kind  found  in  the  report  of  the 
Marl  borough  Master  who  said  of  a  certain  pupil : 
"  He  is  tall  but  deceitful."  The  custom  of  reading 
aloud  was  always  kept  up  at  Taplow  Court,  the  family 
home;  there  is  no  better  way  of  teaching  children 
to  love  books  and  really  understand  them  and 
acquire  a  sense  of  style.  Here  is  a  lively,  childish 
description  of  a  visit  to  Reading  from  the  little 
boy's  "  History  of  the  Family."  (  "  Maxie  "  was 
Julian's  pet  name.) 

We  went  to  Reading  last  week  to  see  the  biscuits  made — Billy 
and  Julian  and  Mamma,  and  we  eat  a  great  quantity  of  biscuits,  and 
seen  a  line  and  a  brass  rails  where  the  boxes  are  sent  shooting  down, 
and  Billy  and  Maxie  pushed  off  some  of  the  boxes.  And  they  seen 
the  "  Maries  "  made  too,  and  Cracknels,  and  how  they  was  put  in 
boiling  water  the  Cracknels  till  they  were  done,  and  yon  men  took 
them  out  with  great  sieves  and  put  them  in  cold  water,  and  then  bake 
them  ;  we  all  took  one  hot-baked  one,  so  there  were  3  biscuits  gone. 
It  was  very  amusing  to  see  the  man  mixing  the  ginger-nuts  with  a 
great  shovel  and  putting  in  the  sugar  and  butter  in  pailfuls.  And 
we  saw  all  the  girls  packing  up  the  boxes  to  go  abroad  ;  their  lids 
were  soldered  in  before  they  went.  Then  they  were  sent  to  all  sorts 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GRENFELL    287 

of  countries — India,  Iceland,  Rome,  America,  Australia,  Europe 
countries,  Italy,  Scotland,  Portugal,  and  nearly  all  other  countries. 
And  we  saw  some  soldiers  and  sailors  and  clowns  all  made  of  sugar 
for  birthday-cakes.  And  trains  run  all  through  the  factories,  and 
engines  to  pull  them,  and  trucks  which  men  push  along.  And  one 
of  the  kind  men  drawed  them  a  violet  and  a  bird  and  a  running  rabbit 
all  with  a  little  screw  of  paper  full  of  white  sugar  that  came  streaming 
out  at  the  bottom.  And  when  they  were  just  crossing  the  railway 
bridge  a  train  passed  and  splashed  up  steam  in  my  face.  And  that 
was  the  day  which  we  finished  in  the  train  "  Settlers  at  Home,"  and 
how  they  got  away  from  the  Red  Hill,  to  the  friendly  farm-house. 
And  now  we  have  just  finished  "  Jackanapes,"  when  dear  Jackanapes 
was  a  baby  he  went  out  after  the  little  duck,  and  it  said  "  Quawk  " 
when  it  got  away  into  the  pond.  And  how  Jackanapes  rescued  Tony 
and  how  Jackanapes  was  shot,  and  about  the  Major,  and  all  about 
the  war.  And  there  was  the  gipsy's  red-haired  pony,  when  Jacka- 
napes was  little,  and  how  little  Jackanapes  started  him  by  blowing 
his  twopenny  trumpet,  and  how  he  spent  his  two  shillings. 

And  Mr.  Balfour  came  here  for  Sunday,  he  is  in  Parliament.  And 
Evan  came  too,  and  the  "  babies  "  as  Mum  calls  them  came  down 
to  luncheon  too.  I  cannot  tell  any  more  about  that  thing. 

All  of  which  is  fine,  fresh  natural  prose — and 
when  we  get  it  from  a  grown-up  (as  in  Pepys' 
Diary  or  in  the  wonderful  account  of  the  experiences 
of  a  prisoner  of  war  at  Wittenberg,  which  appeared 
in  the  Morning  Post  two  years  ago)  we  rejoice 
aloud  and  call  it  a  work  of  genius. 

Julian's  bent  for  adventurous  open-air  living  was 
soon  shown.  When  he  was  only  seven,  he  was 
quite  wild  about  any  kind  of  shooting  and  sport ; 
bows  and  arrows  played  a  great  part  in  his  life, 
and  he  loved  to  go  with  his  father  and  grand-aunt 
when  they  shot  wild-duck  in  the  evenings  at 
Panshanger.  It  was  curious  how  early  he  began 
following  and  tracking  animals — the  instinct  had 
already  appeared  which  made  him  so  good  at  scout- 
ing and  reconnoitring  in  the  war.  He  and  his 
brother  loving  fishing  in  the  Lochs  when  the  family 
went  to  Assynt  Forest  in  Sutherlandshire,  where 


288        CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

they  had  a  great  friend  named  Murdoch  Keir  who 
told  them  Gaelic  legends  and  stones  and  sang  to 
them  and  played  a  kind  of  little  fiddle,  and  taught 
them  to  catch  fish  and  sea-urchins,  and  bait  lobster- 
pots  and  pull  them  up,  and  steer  a  sailing  boat. 
One  of  Murdoch  Keir's  stories  was  about  a  visit 
to  London,  when  he  thought  he  would  stifle  at 
night  and  got  up  and  rowed  a  little  boat  into  the 
middle  of  the  Thames  and  sat  there  and  cried  for 
sheer  home-sickness.  The  boys  never  forgot  him  ; 
indeed  they  were  incapable  of  forgetting  any  old 
friend.  In  later  years  when  they  came  home  they 
always  ran  up  first  of  all  to  see  "Hawa,"  their 
old  nurse,  who  became  too  old  and  infirm  to  come 
downstairs  to  welcome  them. 

Their  first  school  was  Summer  Fields,  near 
Oxford,  and  there  they  showed  great  promise  both 
at  classics  and  at  games.  There  they  were  some- 
times visited  by  their  people,  who  never  dressed  so 
carefully  for  any  occasions  in  life  as  for  these  school 
visits,  for  they  had  been  told  of  the  miserable 
existence  led  by  a  little  boy  whose  very  picturesque 
mother  had  worn  what  the  other  boys  pronounced 
to  be  "  a  rum  cloak."  Julian  never  cried  when  he 
went  to  Summer  Fields ;  he  faced  it  even  for  the 
first  time  at  all  as  he  would  an  adventure  in  the 
unknown.  But  Billy  did,  and  his  family  had  to 
show  great  ingenuity  never  to  find  it  out.  They 
got  a  great  many  prizes,  and  were  in  the  school 
teams.  Then  Julian  went  to  Eton  and  took  the 
Fifth  Form,  which  was  then  a  very  rare  thing  for 
an  Oppidan.  Billy  followed  later  on,  winning  the 
second  of  seventeen  scholarships.  It  was  just  at  the 
end  of  his  time  at  Summer  Fields  that  Julian  had  an 
experience  which  made  a  deep  impression  on  his 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GRENFELL    289 

mind.  There  was  a  great  thunderstorm,  and  he 
said,  "  I  seemed  suddenly  to  realize  God."  It  was 
in  his  early  years  at  Eton  that  he  became  so  very 
fond  of  Thomas  a  Kempis.  He  confessed  that  he 
passed  through  a  very  priggish  state  of  mind  about 
fifteen.  His  brother  had  just  arrived  at  Eton  and 
he  would  go  and  see  him  every  Sunday  afternoon 
and  lecture  him  severely  "  for  his  own  good " — 
the  interview  invariably  ended  in  a  terrific  fight. 
This  was  the  only  time  in  their  lives  when  they 
were  not  completely  at  one,  and  a  single  Half  saw 
the  little  cloud  come  and  go.  Like  all  brothers  who 
are  passionately  attached  to  one  another,  they  often 
fought  terrifically.  Once  when  they  went  to  tea 
with  an  old  lady,  they  rolled  right  down  her 
staircase,  locked  together,  fighting;  and  their 
mother  once  found  them  clutching  one  another's 
throats  and  both  black  in  the  face.  I  have  known 
two  instances  of  twin-brothers  who  pined  when 
they  were  separated,  and  in  both  cases  their  families 
were  terrified  and  puzzled  by  their  predilection  for 
sudden,  all-in  fights.  There  is  a  psychological 
point  here  which  requires  elucidation — it  would  have 
interested  the  late  William  James,  by  whose  prag- 
matism Julian  was  at  one  time  profoundly  intrigued. 
At  Eton  they  were  already  social  personages 
(Eton  is  not  a  school  so  much  as  a  manner  of  social 
living)  and  they  had  so  many  famous  friends,  men 
and  women,  young  and  old,  that  it  becomes 
impossible  to  follow  their  lives  in  detail.  Lord 
Kitchener  was  one  of  their  best  and  most  admired 
friends ;  even  when  campaigning  in  South  Africa 
he  found  time  to  write  them  letters.  A  character- 
sketch  of  the  great  soldier  in  one  of  Julian's  letters 
(the  visitor's  name  was  unknown  to  him  when  they 


290        CASTOR   AND    POLLUX 

met  one  morning)  is  singularly  judicious  in  its  appre- 
ciation of  the  fine  qualities  of  the  utterly  unselfisl 
man  who  found  "  in  life  no  rest,  in  death  no  grave/' 
and  grows  in  stature  daily  as  his  figure  recedes  in 
the  distance  of  time  gone  by.  But  it  is  the  inalien- 
able charm  and  tenderness  of  the  family  life  which 
seem  to  dominate  the  whole  drama  of  development. 
Their  father  and  mother  were  as  an  elder  brother 
and  elder  sister  ;  there  was  perfect  trust  and  con- 
fidence on  both  sides ;  and  to  the  very  end  they  were 
all  one  another's  nearest  and  dearest  friends.  When 
they  came  together  after  months  of  separation,  it 
may  be,  the  old  life  of  love  and  friendship  and 
abounding  sympathy  was  at  once  renewed  without 
the  slightest  sense  of  effort.  They  had  been  ii 
one  another's  hearts  all  the  time.  The  lines  from 
Browning  which  Julian  sent  to  his  mother  from 
South  Africa  :— 

Feel  where  your  life  broke  off  from  mine, 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine  ; 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine — 

were  true  of  any  meeting  after  separation  among  the 
members  of  this  family — u  a  sort  of  entity,"  accord- 
ing to  a  philosophic  friend  who  wondered  at  it  all. 

Taplow  was  always  a  kind  of  annexe  of  Eton 
and  of  Oxford  also,  so  the  family  life  was  really 
the  background  of  all  the  brothers'  experiences  in 
either  citadel  of  the  growing  soul.  Both  were  fine 
classical  scholars — not  of  the  "professional"  type, 
though — and  Billy's  record — Eton  scholarship,  the 
Newcastle,  First  Classical  Exhibition  at  Balliol, 
First  in  Mods,  Craven,  mentioned  for  the  Ireland 
—was  brilliant  and  would  have  been  better  still 
if  he  had  not  attempted  the  all  but  impossible  by 
reading  for  the  Ireland  and  "  Greats  "  at  the  same 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GRENFELL    291 

time.  But  Julian  had  as  deep  an  insight  into  the 
beauty  and  truth  of  classical  literature ;  both  he 
and  his  brother  read  Greek  and  Latin  for  the 
delight  of  it,  and  what  they  read  became  part  of 
their  very  being.  And  they  had  great  joy  of  all 
manner  of  games;  Billy  played  tennis  and  boxed 
for  Oxford,  and  would  certainly  have  run  the  half- 
mile  at  Queen's  Club  but  for  a  break-down  in 
health.  Julian,  however,  was  his  equal — perhaps 
his  superior — as  the  best  type  of  all-round  athlete 
grown  in  England,  where  the  American  idea  of 
rigid  specialization  in  sport  (so  that  you  are  forbidden 
to  attempt  to  jump  for  length  as  well  as  for  height) 
is  not  yet  accepted  and,  I  hope,  never  will  be,  for 
it  creates  an  abnormal  physique  and  is  a  most  bore- 
some  business.  The  difference  in  their  boxing 
threw  light  on  that  difference  of  character  which 
made  them  the  spiritual  complements  of  one  another. 
In  1911  I  saw  Billy  knock  out  the  Cambridge 
heavy-weight  in  the  Inter- Varsity  boxing  and  saw 
in  his  great  gaunt  frame  (he  was  6  ft.  4^  in.)  a 
very  dangerous  boxer  in  outline.  He  had  a  long, 
sturdy  left — slightly  hooked  as  it  ought  to  be— 
and  the  Cambridge  man  was  up  against  it  from 
the  beginning.  The  winner's  amiable,  cherubic 
smile  was  a  curious  contrast  to  the  stealthy  alacrity 
of  his  foot-work  and  his  menacing  hands.  With 
practice,  he  would  have  trained  on  into  a  very 
dangerous  boxer  at  his  weight.  But  Julian,  whose 
celebrated  fight  with  Lieutenant  Huntingdon  I  also 
saw,  was  a  far  deadlier  proposition;  he  was  a 
fighter  born  and  made — what  American  critics  call 
a  "  fighter  from  Fightersville."  His  boxing  face 
was  as  fierce  and  frowning  and  intent  as  that  of, 
say,  J.  L.  Sullivan,  who  used  to  frighten  his 


292       CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

opponents  out  of  their  true  form  and  was  merciless 
in  finishing  off  a  contest.  There  was  more  of  the 
romance  of  pugilism  in  his  three  rounds  with 
Huntingdon,  a  boxer  with  all  the  tricks  of  the 
trade  and  a  clever  strategist,  than  in  the  average  20- 
round  professional  championship  contest.  Julian 
Grenfell  had  a  straight  thick  right,  coming  over  with 
the  ease  of  a  piston-rod,  which  would  have  been 
a  fortune  to  any  fashionable  professional.  He  soon 
had  Huntingdon  in  difficulties  with  this  weapon.  At 
one  time  the  latter  was  practically  knocked  out, 
though  still  on  his  feet,  and  the  contest  would  have 
been  over  at  once  if  his  opponent,  who  had  been 
thumped  between  the  eyes  and  could  not  see  clearly, 
had  been  able  to  find  his  man.  Huntingdon  had 
time  to  recover,  and  eventually  won  on  points  by 
a  very  narrow  margin.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
the  spectators — and  the  referee — adhered  to  their 
seats  during  this  thrilling  affair. 

The  contrast  between  the  two  was  defined  as 
follows  by  one  who  knew  them  both  at  Oxford : 
"  Like  Julian,  Billy  was  a  fine  athlete  and  a  keen 
sportsman ;  very  few  of  his  contemporaries  were  so 
continuously  and  efficiently  active;  but  it  was 
characteristic  of  him  that  even  in  activity  he  con- 
trived to  give  an  impression  of  repose,  almost  of 
indolence.  In  this  respect  he  was  in  striking  con- 
trast with  Julian.  Julian  stood  for  motion,  Billy 
for  mass ;  Julian  for  force  in  action,  Billy  for  force 
in  rest.  Julian  was  like  a  torrent,  Billy  like  a 
deep,  still  lake,  having  the  same  inviting  serenity, 
the  same  composure.  He  (Billy)  was  singularly 
intolerant  of  the  common  herd,  and  moved  among 
strangers  with  a  kind  of  drowsy  arrogance,  which 
pointed  delightfully  the  slow  and  simple  sweetness 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GRENFELL    293 

of  his  way  with  friends."  But,  as  this  authority 
adds,  words  are  here  flimsy  things ;  such  golden 
lads  are  not  to  be  revealed  out  of  the  tinsel  of  a 
few  pale  adjectives. 

Their  travels  and  sporting  adventures,  their 
joyous  ragging,  their  innumerable  friendships,  the 
books  they  read  and  liked  or  liked  not  (they  detected 
sham  emotions,  as  in  some  of  Masefield's  poems,  at 
a  glance)  would  fill  this  book  to  overflowing.  They 
were  wondrously  in  love  with  the  variousness  of 
life.  There  is  a  passage  in  one  of  Julian's  letters 
from  South  Africa  which  brings  this  out  well.  "  I 
want  to  ask  for  such  a  lot  of  things  "  : — 

Faith. 
Hope. 
Charity. 

Someone  to  buy  my  ponies. 

A  grande  passion. 

A  new  face. 

A  beautiful  soul. 

More  love  of  my  fellow-men. 

Death  of . 

Death  of . 

£250. 

Small  feet  and  hands. 

.Gentleness. 

Quick  repartee. 

Less  appetite. 

Polished  manners  of  the  true  gentleman. 

Truth,  sudden  discovery  of  the. 

Boots,  Polo,  new. 

Life,  theory  of,  new. 

Books,  old. 

Books,  new. 

Death  of 

which  reminds  one  of  a  passage  in  Rupert  Brooke's 
letters  in  which  he  speaks  of  "  that  tearing  hunger 
to  do  and  do  and  do  things.  I  want  to  walk  1000 


294       CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

miles  and  write  1000  plays  and  sing  1000  poems, 
and  drink  1000  pots  of  beer,  and  kiss  1000  girls, 
and — oh,  a  million  things !  "  Looking  back  we 
see  these  Grenfell  brothers,  as  ancient  votaries  saw 
the  Dioscuri  in  a  radiant  cloud,  in  a  dazzling  chang- 
ing-changeless  coruscation  of  youth  and  young 
beauty  and  yet  know  they  are  as  anxious  to  be  as 
to  <afo,  and  that  the  character  which  is  destiny  is 
all  the  time  growing  in  them  skyward,  silently, 
invisibly. 

There  could  be  no  life  but  a  soldier's  life  for 
Julian  Grenfell,  and  he  found  full  scope  for  his 
love  of  soldiering  and  sport  in  the  Royal  Dragoons. 
He  was  in  South  Africa  when  the  war  broke  out. 
He  reached  Flanders  after  the  Mons  Retreat ;  the 
transport  in  which  the  Royals  crossed  over  was 
nearly  torpedoed.  War  he  took  in  the  "  Old 
Army "  or  traditional  spirit  of  the  English  officer. 
Young  or  old,  officers  in  the  services  look  upon  war 
as  "  noble  sport "  just  as  our  men  did  at  Agincourt. 
Lady  Desborough  quotes  a  letter  from  a  midship- 
man-son, aged  seventeen,  to  illustrate  this  spirit.  It 
was  written  to  his  mother  : — "  It  is  awful  for  R— 
being  kept  at  Harrow  while  this  is  going  on,  but  I 
have  written  to  try  and  cheer  him  up  by  saying  the 
war  is  certain  to  last  two  years,  by  which  time  he 
will  be  able  to  join  in.  I  do  hope  you  and  Father 
will  tell  him  this  too,  whatever  you  may  think" 
Julian  Grenfell  rather  agreed  with  the  definition  of 
the  war  as  "  months  of  boredom  punctuated  by 
moments  of  terror."  He  loved  the  dangerous, 
tumultuous  life  at  the  Front,  but  regretted  the  use- 
lessness  of  cavalry  there.  "  It  is  horrible"  he 
wrote,  "  having  to  leave  one's  horse.  It  feels  like 
leaving  half  oneself  behind,  and  one  feels  the  dual 


JULIAN  &   BILLY  GRENFELL    295 

responsibility  all  the  same."  However,  he  says,  he 
"  would  not  be  anywhere  else  for  a  million  pounds 
and  the  Queen  of  Sheba."  He  thought  always  of 
his  men,  never  of  himself;  any  small  comforts  that 
came  along,  cigarettes  and  chocolate  and  so  forth, 
he  gave  to  his  troop.  He  did  not,  however,  make 
them  out  to  be  plaster-of-Paris  saints ;  they  were 
not  Galahads,  though  "  blooming  day-and-night 
errants,"  as  one  of  the  troopers  said.  He  gives  a 
curious  picture  of  his  men  under  bad  fire — u  they 
used  the  most  filthy  language,  talking  quite  quietly 
and  laughing  all  the  time,  even  after  men  were 
knocked  over  within  a  yard  of  them."  He  longed 
to  be  able  to  say  he  liked  it,  but  really  found 
it  "beastly"  —and  found  also  that  any  pretence  to 
the  contrary  made  him  careless  and  unwatchful  and 
self-absorbed.  A  useful  bit  of  psychology  for  fight- 
ing men  !  But  his  considered  verdict  was  : — "  It 
is  all  the  best  fun.  I  have  never  felt  so  well,  or  so 
happy,  or  enjoyed  anything  so  much.  It  just  suits 
my  stolid  health  and  stolid  nerves  and  barbaric 
disposition.  The  fighting-excitement  vitalizes  every- 
thing, every  sight  and  word  and  action.  One  loves 
one's  fellow-man  so  much  more  when  one  is  bent  on 
killing  him."  This,  the  mystical  way  of  looking  at 
it,  is  the  right  way  ;  for  war  is  a  form  of  mysticism 
in  action.  Of  course,  he  turned  down  the  chance 
of  a  staff  job  at  once;  because  (i)  he  felt  he  was 
more  useful  in  the  fighting-line,  and  (2)  preferred 
roughing  it  with  his  own  friends  and  his  own 
men.  What  else  could  you  expect  of  this  born 
soldier  ? 

He  had  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  genius  for 
scouting.  They  were  then  entrenched  in  a  dripping 
rain-sodden  wood,  where  the  trees  (fir-trees)  had 


296       CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

mostly  been  cut  down  by  shrapnel.      The  story  is 
best  told  in  his  own  words : — 

We  had  been  worried  by  their  snipers  all  along,  and  I  had  always 
been  asking  for  leave  to  go  out  and  have  a  try  myself.  Well,  on 
Tuesday  the  i6th  (November),  the  day  before  yesterday,  they  gave 
me  leave.  Only  after  great  difficulty.  They  told  me  to  take  a 
section  with  me,  and  I  said  I  would  sooner  cut  my  throat  and  have 
done  with  it.  So  they  let  me  go  alone.  Off  I  crawled  through  sodden 
clay  and  trenches,  going  about  a  yard  a  minute,  and  listening  and 
looking  as  I  thought  it  was  not  possible  to  look  and  listen.  I  went 
out  to  the  right  of  our  lines,  where  the  loth  were,  and  where  the 
Germans  were  nearest.  •  I  took  about  30  minutes  to  do  30  yards, 
then  I  saw  the  Hun  trench,  and  I  waited  there  a  long  time,  but  could 
see  or  hear  nothing.  It  was  about  10  yards  from  me.  Then  I  heard 
some  Germans  talking,  and  saw  one  put  his  head  up  over  some  bushes, 
about  10  yards  behind  the  trench.  I  could  not  get  a  shot  at  him,  I 
was  too  low  down,  and  of  course  I  could  not  get  up.  So  I  crawled 
on  again  very  slowly  to  the  parapet  of  their  trench.  It  was  very 
exciting.  1  was  not  sure  that  there  might  not  have  been  someone 
there,  or  a  little  further  along  the  trench.  I  peered  through  their 
loop-hole  and  saw  nobody  in  the  trench.  Then  the  German  behind 
put  his  head  up  again.  He  was  laughing  and  talking.  I  saw  his 
teeth  glistening  against  my  foresight,  and  I  pulled  the  trigger  very 
slowly.  He  just  grunted,  and  crumpled  up.  The  others  got  up  and 
whispered  to  each  other.  I  do  not  know  which  were  most  frightened, 
them  or  me.  I  think  there  were  four  or  five  of  them.  They  could 
not  trace  the  shot,  I  was  flat  behind  their  parapet  and  hidden.  I 
just  had  the  nerve  not  to  move  a  muscle  and  stay  there.  My  heart 
was  fairly  hammering.  They  did  not  come  forward,  and  I  could 
not  see  them,  as  they  were  behind  some  bushes  and  trees,  so  I  crept 
back  inch  by  inch. 

I  went  out  again  in  the  afternoon,  in  front  of  our  bit  of  the  line. 
About  60  yards  off  I  found  their  trench  again,  empty  again.  I  waited 
there  for  an  hour,  but  saw  nobody.  Then  I  went  back,  because  I 
did  not  want  to  get  inside  some  of  their  patrols  who  might  have  been 
placed  forward.  I  reported  the  trench  empty. 

The  next  day,  just  before  dawn,  I  crawled  out  there  again,  and 
found  it  empty  again.  Then  a  single  German  came  through  the 
woods  towards  the  trench.  I  saw  him  50  yards  off.  He  was  coming 
along  upright  and  careless,  making  a  great  noise.  I  heard  him  before 
I  saw  him.  I  let  him  get  within  25  yards,  and  shot  him  in  the  heart. 
He  never  made  a  sound.  Nothing  for  10  minutes,  and  then  there  was 
a  noise  and  talking,  and  a  lot  of  them  came  along,  through  the  wood 
behind  the  trench  about  40  yards  from  me.  I  counted  about  20,  and 


JULIAN  &  BILLY  GRENFELL    297 

there  were  more  coming.  They  halted  in  front,  and  I  picked  out  the 
one  I  thought  was  the  officer,  or  sergeant.  He  stood  facing  the  other 
way,  and  I  had  a  steady  shot  at  him  behind  the  shoulders.  He  went 
down,  and  that  was  all  I  saw.  I  went  back  at  a  sort  of  galloping  crawl 
to  our  lines,  and  sent  a  message  to  the  loth  that  the  Germans  were 
moving  up  their  way  in  some  numbers.  Half  an  hour  afterwards 
they  attacked  the  loth  and  our  right  in  massed  formation,  advancing 
slowly  to  within  10  yards  of  the  trenches.  We  simply  mowed  them 
down.  It  was  rather  horrible. 

It  was  a  most  useful  piece  of  reconnoitring,  for 
it  enabled  our  men  to  smash  up  what  was  intended 
to  be  a  surprise  attack.  He  proved  himself  a  most 
excellent  officer  throughout,  and  in  February  1915 
he  received  the  D.S.O.  for  gallant  and  distinguished 
services.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  the  Germans 
as  brainy  fighters,  and  gave  nothing  away  in  his 
dealings  with  them.  He  would  certainly  have 
risen  to  high  command,  if  he  had  lived.  On 
May  1 3th  near  Ypres  he  was  wounded-  in  the 
head,  and  was  sent  to  hospital  in  Boulogne.  He 
looked  so  well  and  was  in  such  good  spirits  that 
nobody  thought  he  was  really  on  his  way  West. 
But  things  went  badly  with  his  wound,  and  little 
hope  was  left  after  a  second  operation.  His  father 
and  mother  and  sister  were  with  him,  and  he 
knew  them  all  to  the  end,  his  last  word  being 
his  father's  name,  and  his  last  gesture  moving 
his  mother's  hand  to  his  lips.  His  grave 
in  the  soldiers'  cemetery  on  the  hill  above 
Boulogne  was  lined  and  filled  with  wild  flowers 
from  the  forest  and  the  gay  green  oak-leaves  which 
had  just  come  out.  His  little  sister's  last  letter  to 
him  and  the  flowers  from  her  garden  were  buried 
with  him.  Nobody  wore  mourning  for  him ;  nor 
for  his  brother  when  his  time  came. 

They  were  not  separated  for  long.      Billy  Gren- 


298        CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

fell  was  killed  on  July  3oth  while  leading  his 
platoon  in  a  charge  near  Hooge.  He  must  have 
fallen  not  a  mile  from  the  place  where  his  brother 
was  wounded.  He  was  in  the  Rifle  Brigade,  and 
from  the  first  proved  himself  one  of  the  young 
officers  who  create  the  moral  of  an  army  in  the 
making.  His  platoon  was  rather  a  tough,  trouble- 
some lot,  and  at  first  even  he  found  them  hard  to 
handle.  But  the  men  soon  got  to  know  him,  and 
everything  was  changed,  and  they  would  do  any- 
thing and  go  anywhere.  In  the  trenches  he  was 
always  making  jokes  and  cheering  them  up.  One 
favourite  joke  was  about  his  height,  which  he  often 
forgot,  so  that  his  head  would  show  above  the 
parapet  until  a  bullet  came  along  as  a  reminder. 
Then  he  would  duck  his  head  and  say,  laughing, 
"  Oh,  I  think  my  head  must  be  showing,"  and 
this  saying  became  one  of  those  standing  jokes  which 
are  as  dear  to  soldiers  as  to  schoolboys.  He  was 
absolutely  fearless.  The  Dioscuri  were  together  again, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  their  immortality  was 
"a  great  activity,"  as  Billy  said,  long  before  the 
war,  of  a  lost  and  much-loved  relation. 

Billy  Grenfell  did  not  live  long  enough  to  come 
to  the  poetical  efflorescence  which  his  power  of  deep 
feeling  and  gift  of  self-expression  in  the  fewest 
possible  words  (you  see  it  in  his  letters  again  and  again) 
made  inevitable  sooner  or  later.  The  one  poem 
he  left,  the  tribute  to  John  Manners : — 

0  heart-and-soul  and  careless  played 

Our  little  band  of  brothers, 
And  never  recked  the  time  would  come 

To  change  our  games  for  others. 
It's  joy  for  those  who  played  with  you 

To  picture  now  what  grace 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GREftFELL    299 

Was  in  your  mind  and  single  heart 

And  in  your  radiant  face. 
Your  light-foot  strength  by  flood  and  field 

For  England  keener  glowed  ; 
To  whatsoever  things  are  fair 

We  know,  through  you,  the  road  ; 
Nor  is  our  grief  the  less  thereby  ; 

0  swift  and  strong  and  dear,  Good-bye — 

is  enough  to  show  what  he  could  have  done  when 
his  lips  were  at  last  touched — by  some  dear  disaster 
or  by  passion  in  retrospect,  that  strong  and  kindly 
magician.  Some  day,  if  he  had  lived  into  the 
tempestuous  peace-time  which  is  approaching,  he 
must  have  expressed  his  quick  remembrance  of 
Julian  in  language  lifted  to  a  higher  plane  than 
that  of  the  most  inspired  prose,  for  he  was  nearer 
to  his  brother  than  anybody  else — nearer,  perhaps, 
in  some  ways  than  his  parents — and  knew  the 
very  "  shoots  of  everlastingness "  which  were  the 
mystical  influences  in  what  was  really  the  comple- 
ment of  his  own  soul.  It  is  clear  he  felt  the  brief 
parting  as  the  greatest  of  impossible  calamities ; 
perhaps  he  was  glad  of  its  brevity,  when  the  end 
came  for  him.  Arthur  Grenfell's  twin-brothers, 
Rivvy  and  Francis,  could  not  have  felt  their 
separation  more  poignantly.  After  his  brother's 
death  Francis  wrote  to  their  Eton  tutor :  "  You 
who  parted  us  so  often  in  the  old  days  will  know 
what  it  means  to  be  parted  now." 

Julian  Grenfell,  however,  has  left  us  three  poems 
of  a  swift  intensity  which  is  found  only  in  the 
mystical  verse  of  Crashaw  and  Blake.  All  three 
might  have  been  written  by  a  brother  of  the 
"  undaunted  daughter  of  desires,"  half  eagle  and 
half  dove,  whom  Crashaw  celebrates  in  the  most 


300       CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

ecstatic  outpouring  in  the  English  language.  H< 
was  not,  as  most  people  still  believe,  a  single-p< 
genius.  Yet  even  critics  who  ought  to  know  bettei 
think  that  Into  Battle  was  the  first  and  last  gusl 
of  melody  from  a  heart  of  inarticulate  rock  smitten 
once,  and  once  only,  to  such  purpose  by  the  brazen 
rod  of  war.  The  truth  is  that  The  Hills 
(written  at  Chakrata  in  May  1911)  and  To  a 
Black  Greyhound  (written  in  the  Spring  of  1912) 
are  masterpieces  as  memorable  as  the  war-poem 
which  will  be  remembered  as  the  loftiest  and  most 
joyous  Religio  Militis  in  verse  we  can  hope  to 
possess.  Moreover,  a  number  of  lesser  pieces  have 
been  preserved  which  are  often  so  striking  in  mattei 
and  manner  that  one  feels  he  was  a  poet  born  and 
made  (poet a  nascitur  necnon  fit).  At  the  age  of 
fourteen  he  made  this  excellent  verse  translation 
from  the  Latin  :— 

"  Folia  in  silvis  proms  mutantur  in  annos" 

The  leaves  are  falling  fast  from  off  the  tree 
And  yellow  heaps  congeal  the  sodden  ground, 

Pale  are  the  gleams  of  sunlight  on  the  lea, 
And  western  winds  give  forth  a  dreary  sound. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  spring  ?    Ay,  where  are  they  ? 
Only  the  small  gnat  mourns  the  dying  day. 

Yet  flowers  here  and  there  adorn  the  sward, 

Fruits  with  their  hues  still  make  the  trees  look  gay  : 

The  fading  autumn  doth  some  joys  afford  ; 
Some  light  and  colour  still  relieve  the  day. 

Summer  and  spring  delights  are  left  behind, 
Nor  yet  has  breathed  the  icy  winter  wind. 

At  eighteen  (when  he  had  edited  the  Eton  Chronicle 
for  a  year,  brought  out  a  guerilla  school  paper 
called  the  Outsider^  which  lasted  for  six  numbers  and 
had  for  contributors  Charles  Lister,  Patrick  Shaw- 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GRENFELL    301 

Stewart,  Ronald  Knox  and  others,  and  also  written 
articles  for  the  World  and  Vanity  Fair],  he  wrote  a 
long  poem  on  the  San  Francisco  earthquake  which 
is  a  remarkable  piece  of  verbal  architecture  and 
shows  that  he  knew  by  instinct  the  secret  of 
impressi veness  in  verse — the  right  management  of 
vowels,  which  are  the  very  soul  of  verbal  music. 
Here  are  three  stanzas  leading  up  to  the  moral  of 
the  poem,  which  is,  that  sorrow  fortifies  the  character 
of  man : — 

As  on  that  western  city  fair,, 

Founded  in  steel  and  adamant, 
Which  up  to  heaven's  glowing  stair. 

Her  towers  in  lofty  masses  sent, 

Trusting  in  all  that  mortal  can, — 

In  all  the  strength  and  skill  of  man. 

The  deadly  anger  of  the  earth, 
The  force  which  none  can  conquer,  fell 

And  mighty  waves  of  hidden  birth 
Now  rose  to  Heaven,  now  sank  to  Hell, 
And  colonnade  and  church  and  tower 
To  ruin  crashed  in  one  dread  hour  : 

As  deadly  and  as  unforeseen 

On  man  descends  the  heavenly  blow  ; 
The  test  is  sharp,  the  trial  keen, 

Bitter  the  pang  to  undergo  ; 

But  sure  are  we  that  God  is  wise, 

Who  doth  demand  such  sacrifice. 

As  one  would  expect  from  a  boy  still  at  a  Public 
School  he  cheerfully  accepted  the  ruling  of  the 
conventional  theologians — delivered  in  "  the  bluff 
Christian  voice  that  is  wholly  pedagogic,"  of  which 
Rupert  Brooke  pretends  to  be  possessed  when 
describing  his  experiences  as  acting  Housemaster  at 
School  Field.  In  later  years,  when  he  had  thought 
—or  rather  felt— deeply  about  the  great  issues  of  life, 
he  never  explicitly  formulated  his  philosophy  of  living. 


3o2       CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

That  is  as  much  as  to  say  he  knew  the  proper 
functions  of  a  poet — one  of  which  is  to  remember 
the  dreadful  fate  of  Coleridge  and  never  allow 
poetry  to  run  to  dry  scattering  seed  in  philosophy. 
During  his  voyage  to  South  Africa  on  the  Saxon 
(April  1913)  he  began  a  poem  which  might  have 
been  a  complete  statement  of  the  mystical  faith  that 
was  in  him  if  it  had  ever  been  finished.  He  threw 
the  fragments  away,  but  they  were  rescued  and 
kept  by  a  lady  on  board  who  sent  them  to  his 
father  after  his  death. 

Between  the  Visioned  and  the  Seen, 
Between  the  Will  Be  and  Has  Been, 
There  stays  a  little  space,  yet  stays  not, 
Where  Time,  delaying  still,  delays  not ; 
And  all  things  moving  in  God's  groove 
Seem  not  to  move — or  if  they  move 
Move  with  a  dim  subsconscious  motion, 
As  on  the  moving  tides  of  Ocean. 

The  ordered  Past  behind  us  lies, 

The  Past  with  ordered  argosies 

Of  Memory's  abiding  treasure, 

Of  pain  and  joy  and  driving  pleasure. 

Passion,  a  fiery  flaming  sword, 

Swooping,  the  Angel  of  the  Lord, 

Has  cut  a  burning  way  about, 

Has  struck  the  soul  with  fire  and  rout, 

Has  struck  and  cleansed,  and  wandered  out. 

And  Lust,  the  son  of  storm  and  thunder, 
Has  seized  the  empty  soul  for  plunder  ; 
Lust,  that  Red  Mimic,  jagged  light, 
Which  deadens  sense,  and  sears  the  sight, 
The  twisted  lightning,  viper-tongues, 
The  thunder  surging  from  the  lungs 
Of  Hell ;    the  slaying  hail  down-shattering 
That  cools  the  flame  by  blows  and  battering ; 
And  then  false  mockery  of  peace, 
Half  dreaded,  half  desired  release. 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GRENFELL    303 

It  would  not  have  been  sheer  poetry  any  more 
than  it  would  have  been  formal  philosophy.  Only 
in  music,  perhaps,  can  such  inexpressive  thoughts  be 
artistically  expressed.  But  it  is  a  great  pity  the 
piece  was  never  finished. 

Now  and  again,  like  all  poets  who  are  too  great 
to  let  poise  be  stage-managed  into  pose,  Julian 
Grenfell  wrote  light,  humorous  verse.  Personal 
"  Limericks "  (are  they  not  an  engaging  form  of 
Celtic  lyric  ?)  written  at  Eton  are  still  extinct,  and 
also  his  reply  to  a  number  of  Christmas  invitations 
to  dances : — 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife, 
To  all  the  social  world  say  "  Hang  it, 
I,  who  for.  seventeen  years  of  life 
Have  trod  this  happy,  hustling  planet, 
I  won't  go  woman-hunting  yet, 
I  won't  become  a  Social  Pet." 

On  his  way  to  the  war  from  South  Africa 
he  wrote  this  Short  Historical  Survey  of  the 
German : — 

When  God  on  high  created  Man, 
He  made  the  Hun  barbarian, 
He  made  the  Vandal,  and  the  Goth, 
A  great  gross  beast  inclined  to  wrath  ; 
The  Goths  were  ever  barbarous, 
Since  Caesar  fought  Arminius. 

The  ancient  Goth,  so  Caesar  says, 
Was  heavy  in  his  speech  and  ways, 
Was  gross  and  mannerless  at  table, 
And  ate  as  much  as  he  was  able, 
And  drank  as  much  as  he  could  hold, 
And  beat  his  wife  when  she  grew  old. 
His  soul  was  filled  with  heavy  pride, 
His  gait  was  heavy,  his  inside 


304        CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

Was  heavy  ;  he  had  neck  as  full, 
And  eye  as  sluggish,  as  the  bull. 

(You  say  that  Caesar  never  said 

These  things  ?     Well,  then,  he  should  have.— Ed.) 

The  Goths  and  Huns  are  now  called  "  German  "  ; 

"  Arminius  "  is  changed  to  "  Hermann." 

But  Germans  of  the  present  day 

Are  just  as  savage  as  were  they. 

The  present  German  is  a  scandal 

As  great  as  ever  was  the  Vandal. 

The  Germans  are  barbarians  ; 

(And  so  are  the  Hungarians) ; 

And  therefore  it  is  for  the  best 

That  they  are  shortly  going  West. 

But  one  thing  only  makes  me  fear — 

When  there  are  no  more  Germans  here, 

Where  shall  we  get  our  Munich  Beer  ? 

And,  while  at  the  war,  he  composed  this  derisive 
Prayer  for  Those  on  the  Staff—  to  express  the  keen 
regimental  officer's  not  unnatural,  if  illogical,  dis- 
taste for  the  less  dangerous  and  more  decorative  life 
of  the  brass-hatted  fraternity  :— 

Fighting  in  mud,  we  turn  to  Thee, 
In  these  dread  times  of  battle,  Lord, 

To  keep  us  safe,  if  so  may  be, 

From  shrapnel,  snipers,  shell,  and  sword. 

But  not  on  us,  for  we  are  men 

Of  meaner  clay,  who  fight  in  clay, 
But  on  the  Staff,  the  Upper  Ten, 

Depends  the  issue  of  the  Day. 

The  Staff  is  working  with  its  brains, 

\Vhile  we  are  sitting  in  the  trench ; 
The  Staff  the  universe  ordains 

(Subject  to  Thee  and  General  French). 

God  help  the  Staff — especially 
The  young  ones,  many  of  them  sprung 

From  our  high  aristocracy  ; 
Their  task  is  hard,  and  they  are  young. 


JULIAN   &   BILLY   GRENFELL    305 

0  Lord,  who  mad'st  all  things  to  be, 

And  madest  some  things  very  good} 
Please  keep  the  extra  A.D.C. 

From  horrid  scenes,  and  sight  of  blood. 

See  that  his  eggs  are  newly  laid, 
Not  tinged  as  some  of  them — with  green ; 

And  let  no  nasty  draughts  invade 
The  windows  of  his  Limousine. 

When  he  forgets  to  buy  the  bread, 

When  there  are  no  more  minerals, 
Preserve  his  smooth  well-oil£d  head 

From  wrath  of  caustic  Generals. 

0  Lord}  who  mad'st  all  things  to  be} 

And  hatest  nothing  thou  hast  made, 
Please  keep  the  extra  A.D.C. 

Out  of  the  sun  and  in  the  shade. 

These  trifles  not  only  threw  light  on  the  joyous 
side  of  his  mentality  but  also  prove,  if  further  proof 
be  necessary,  that  he  had  a  gift  of  easy,  all-round 
expression  in  rhyme  and  rhythm.  His  Hymn  to 
the  Wild  Boar,  in  a  vein  of  sporting  hyperbole, 
helps  one  to  make  the  transition  to  the  first  of  his 
three  great  poems  : — 

God  gave  the  horse  for  man  to  ride, 

And  steel  wherewith  to  fight, 
And  wine  to  swell  his  soul  with  pride 

And  women  for  delight : 
But  a  better  gift  than  these  all  four 
Was  when  He  made  the  fighting  boar. 

The  horse  is  filled  with  spirit  rare, 

His  heart  is  bold  and  free  ; 
The  bright  steel  flashes  in  the  air, 

And  glitters  hungrily. 
But  these  were  little  use  before 
The  Lord  He  made  the  fighting  boar. 

The  ruby  wine  doth  banish  care, 

But  it  confounds  the  head  ; 
The  fickle  fair  is  light  as  air, 

And  makes  the  heart  bleed  red  : 


306       CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

But  wine  nor  love  can  tempt  us  more 
When  we  may  hunt  the  fighting  boar. 

When  Noah's  big  monsoon  was  laid, 

The  land  began  to  ride  again, 
And  then  the  first  hog-spear  was  made 

By  the  hands  of  Tubal  Cain  ; 
The  sons  of  Shem  and  many  more 
Came  out  to  ride  the  fighting  boar. 

Those  ancient  Jew  boys  went  like  stinks, 

They  knew  not  reck  nor  fear, 
Old  Noah  knocked  the  first  two  jinks, 

And  Nimrod  got  the  spear. 
And  ever  since  those  times  of  yore 
True  men  do  ride  the  fighting  boar. 

To  a  Black  Greyhound^  which  is  a  worthy  com- 
panion to  Blake's  "  Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright," 
could  only  have  been  written  by  one  who  was,  as 
a  friend  said,  "  the  gallantest  man  I  have  ever 
known,  and  the  gentlest."  Love  of  animals  was 
one  of  the  strongest  motives  in  his  life,  and  it  was 
rewarded  by  that  passionate  adoration  with  which 
dumb  creatures  :- 

Poor  dwindled  lives  that  lost  the  upward  way 
In  Memory's  morning  when  the  world  began — 

requite  their  lovers,  having  the  genius  for  gratitude 
which  mankind  lost  long  ago.  The  black  grey- 
hound is  lying  at  his  feet  in  the  portrait  that  has 
been  chosen  for  this  book  of  characters  :— 

Shining  black  in  the  shining  light, 

Inky  black  in  the  golden  sun, 
Graceful  as  the  swallow's  flight, 

Light  as  swallow,  winged  one, 
Swift  as  driven  hurricane — 

Double-sinewed  stretch  and  spring, 
Muffled  thud  of  flying  feet, 

See  the  black  dog  galloping, 

Hear  his  wild  foot-beat. 


I 


JULIAN  &   BILLY   GRENFELL    307 

See  him  lie  when  the  day  is  dead, 

Black  curves  curled  on  the  boarded  floor. 

Sleepy  eyes,  my  sleepy  head — 
Eyes  that  were  aflame  before. 

Gentle  now,  they  burn  no  more 

Gentle  now  and  softly  warm, 
With  the  fire  that  made  them  bright 

Hidden — as  when  after  storm 

Softly  falls  the  night. 

God  of  speed,  who  makes  the  fire — 

God  of  Peace,  who  lulls  the  same, 
God  who  gives  the  fierce  desire, 

Lust  for  blood  as  fierce  as  flame — 
God  who  stands  in  Pity's  name — 

Many  may  ye  be  or  less, 
Ye  who  rule  the  earth  and  sun  : 

Gods  of  strength  and  gentleness, 

Ye  are  ever  one. 

In  The  Hills  a  wider  and  deeper  sense  of  fellow- 
ship with  Nature  and  Nature's  pensioners  is  revealed  ; 
his  body  is  one  with  the  abounding  earth,  his  soul  part 
of  the  spirit  of  God  immanent  in  all  things,  animate 
or  inanimate  : — 

Mussourie  and  Chakrata  Hill 

The  Jumna  flows  between  ; 
And  from  Chakrata's  hills  afar 

Mussourie 's  vale  is  seen. 
The  mountains  sing  together 
In  cloud  or  sunny  weather, 
The  Jumna,  through  their  tether, 

Foams  white  or  plunges  green. 

The  mountains  stand  and  laugh  at  Time  ; 

They  pillar  up  the  Earth, 
They  watch  the  ages  pass,  they  bring 

New  centuries  to  birth. 
They  feel  the  day-break  shiver, 
They  see  Time  passing  ever, 
As  flows  the  Jumna  river, 

As  breaks  the  white  sea-surf. 


308       CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

They  drink  the  sun  in  a  golden  cup, 

And  in  blue  mist  the  rain  ; 
With  a  sudden  brightening  they  meet  the  lightning 

Or  ere  it  strikes  the  plain. 
They  seize  the  sullen  thunder/ 
And  take  it  up  for  plunder, 
And  cast  it  down  and  under, 

And  up  and  back  again. 


They  are  as  changeless  as  the  rock, 
As  changeful  as  the  sea ; 

They  rest,  but  as  a  lover  rests 
After  love's  ecstasy. 

They  watch,  as  a  true  lover 

Watches  the  quick  lights  hover 

About  the  lids  that  cover 
His  eyes  so  wearily. 


Heaven  lies  upon  their  breasts  at  night, 

Heaven  kisses  them  at  dawn  ; 
Heaven  clasps  and  kisses  them  at  even 

With  fire  of  the  sun's  death  born. 
They  turn  to  his  desire 
Their  bosom,  flushing  higher 
With  soft  receptive  fire, 

And  blushing,  passion-torn. 

Here,  in  the  hills  of  ages 

I  met  thee  face  to  face, 
0  mother  Earth,  O  lover  Earth, 

Look  down  on  me  with  grace. 
Give  me  thy  passion  burning, 
And  thy  strong  patience,  turning 
All  wrath  to  power,  all  yearning 

To  truth,  thy  dwelling  place. 

And  Into  Battle,  the  last  of  the  trilogy  and  the 
subtlest  and  strongest,  is  a  vindication  of  war  as  a 
mode  of  intense  living,  harmonious  with  the  deepest 
nature  of  man,  in  which  all  sham  emotions  and  root- 
less thoughts  and  sick  sophistries  are  consumed  as  in 
a  refiner's  fire,  and  the  old  half-forgotten  fellowship 


JULIAN   &   BILLY   GRENFELL    309 

with  all  the  creatures  of  God's  imagination  regains 
its  former  power  : — 

The  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring, 

And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees 
Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying, 

And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze  ; 
And  Life  is  Colour  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these  ; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight ; 

And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 
Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth  ; 

Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run, 
And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth ; 

And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 
Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 

The  Dog-Star,  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together, 
They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend  ; 

They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridge's  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day, 
And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night, 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they; 
As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him  "  Brother,  brother, 
If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another  ; 
Brother,  sing." 

In  dreary,  doubtful,  waiting  hours, 

Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts, 
The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers  ; 

O  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts  ! 


310        CASTOR    AND    POLLUX 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks, 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind, 

And  only  Joy  of  Battle  takes 
Him  by  the  throat,  and  makes  him  blind. 

Through  joy  and  blindness  he  shall  know, 
Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still 

Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 
That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands, 
And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings  ; 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands, 
And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 

In  a  letter  written  to  a  woman  friend  from  France 
just  before  he  was  killed  the  brother  that  was  left 
said :  "  You  knew  all  the  mysticism  and  idealism, 
and  that  strange  streak  of  melancholy,  which  under- 
lay Julian's  war-whooping,  sun-bathing,  fearless 
exterior.  I  love  to  think  that  he  has  attained  that 
perfection  and  fullness  of  life  for  which  he  sought 
so  untiringly.  I  seem  to  hear  him  cheering  me  on 
in  moments  of  stress  here  with  even  more  vivid 
power.  There  is  no  one  whose  victory  over  the 
grave  can  be  more  complete."  The  stir  and  stress 
of  the  life  led  on  earth  by  these  earthly  Dioscuri  is 
incommunicable  ;  all  that  could  here  be  written  about 
it  would  be  a  double  handful  of  the  dry,  fleeting, 
whispering  dust  of  circumstance.  He  and  his  brother 
were,  perhaps,  the  most  impressive  of  the  young 
men  whom  England  lost  when  fighting  a  forlorn 
hope  victoriously  on  the  West  Front.  All  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  and  women — famous  soldiers  and 
statesmen  as  well  as  the  young  blithe  companions  of 
their  studies,  sports,  and  social  diversions — lamented 
their  loss  with  understanding,  feeling  that  England 
was  the  poorer  for  their  passage  despite  her  innumer- 
able heart  and  inexhaustible  power  of  making  souls 


JULIAN   &   BILLY   ORENFELL    311 

to  match  every  high  occasion.  As  boys  and  as  men 
they  were  as  cheery  and  natural  as  wild  flowers ; 
the  wildness  was  impulse  in  the  younger,  a  sweet 
fierceness  in  the  elder.  They  lived  unvanquished  by 
any  littlenesses,  and  they  died  as  they  lived — none 
doubted  that  no  more  complete  victory  over  death 
than  theirs  had  ever  yet  been  won.  Like  Castor 
and  Pollux  they  are  together  noiv,  shining  in  some 
other  place. 


THE    END 


PR 
605 
E8 
07 


Osborn,  Edward  Bolls  nd 
The  new  Elizabethans 


UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  UPPARY